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A French Beach, 1817
The sand is the color of cornmeal.
Wind reflects in a lady's hand on
her hat and the full sail on the boat
upon the water. We all look out to
see the power and direction of air,
the soaring of birds from distant hills.
It is the yellow sand that I long for in
this French beach of 1817. No sun-
bathing complicates the picture. The
heat of summer is made endurable
by breeze and the twinkling of water,
an occassional spray of coolness.
During the cruelest subzero freeze of
the century, I have the urge to gnaw
on a stick of butter. I take pause to
observe this beach, the calm heated
color of cornbread. A l'estérel,
eternal warmth, a place to visualize
the balm of summer, melting of butter.
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