In the Place des Vosges

William Wenthe

Hid below the rooflines' ridge, the sun

had raised a sort of alpenglow along

the brick facades across the square.

Eyes down, reading, I was unaware,

until the ring, forgotten on my hand,

began to glow; with rose and gold beyond

its own rose-gold. I raise my eyes --

there on a bench, in shadow grays,

my wife is reading. A beam of just-caught

reflected sunlight arrows a chestnut:

full boughs darkening behind her,

the inner limbs a blush of embers.