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.