Morning near Bedoin (Postcard from Provence)*

Your painted postcard
Straight from Provence
Reached here , like a morning,
Shining in its own glory,

You wrote of asparagus,
That lined the way to that cottage
At the end of your daily walk,
And those trees which appeared
More green than ever, this spring,
And those birds with whom you have made
A kinship, they chirp and tweet,
As if to greet you, every morn, right there
At the Provence,
You wrote in nimble hands what kept you
To that country stuck, its lucid charms,
Its own way of dressing up to welcome you
Every spring, despite the cold still being there, barely retreating,
You wrote how you stopped and watched
The birth of flowers amidst the meadows,
Slow and joyous, spreading their beauty by their unfolding,
And the smell of haystack coming to you
Carried by the breeze of the morn,

Here, in my hands,
Another beautiful day I feel
How gets born,
Made even more succulent
By the postcard from Provence
As by you to me , so sent,

With it I go near Bedoin
And feel the hint of
A tranquil setting
Of a morning
Which had grown in you.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, taken from a series titled "Postcard from Provence".)


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