I wasn’t expecting to cry.

I laid a stake in theses cobbled streets the way an astronaut plants a flag on the moon.

Look at you Sarah, look at how you’ve grown: thick-skinned, silver tinsel in your hair, money just numbers floating in the air.  Grieving the naive girl I was, remembering the river that I crossed. 

A temporary installation.
A temporary summer.
A temporary life. 
Filed under:
poetry, paris, portraits © 2022
(there are other sarah rose’s, but this is the new one)