Marie Flore

Marie, Marie Flore

was a small girl of ten

whom I met in the south end

of France.

Stepping out of the crowd

was the daughter

of someone with flowers for me,

we were friends at a glance.

She spoke no English but sat

by my side in the car

and pointed out places en route

to the village of Arles.

Marie, Marie Flore

came to table that night

as I dined in an ancient hotel.

The room

was all fitted with things

from the seventeenth century

and they suited her well.

She would eat nothing but sat

in her chair like a queen

and laughed at my French

but seemed always to know

what I'd mean.

Marie, Marie Flore

came to hear me that night

when I sang

for the people of Arles.

She stood back in the shadows

of a ruined arena,

her frame in my mind

was never too far.

In the rush that did follow

I found she was holding my hand

and ushering me

through an evening

the elders had planned.

Marie, Marie Flore,

I will always remember

your eyes,

your smile and your grace.

The gold that flowed

with your laughter remains

to enlighten the image

I have of your face.

For I have seen children

with faces much

wiser than time,

and you, my Marie,

are most certainly

one of this kind.

Marie, Marie Flore,

all the odds say

I see you again

by plan or by chance.

But if not you'll be there

when I'm dreaming of rain

over Paris

or sun on the south end

of France.

Marie, Marie, Marie Flore