The Red Umbrella

She was statuesque

holding her red umbrella

a scarf around her neck,

the hanging sides balancing

at her sides on every step.

Her short winter coat

dancing above her knees,

her boots with high heels

enhanced her long legs.

She was a fashion model.

She held the leather reins

of her two dogs pulling,

all three happy to be

walking in the rain.

She was determined

to enjoy the cold

against her face,

the wind lifting her hair,

the splashes of water

on the wet pavement.

Once home she will

quickly change clothes

for casual comfort,

sit by the peppy fire,

feel the flames warmth,

dry the two dogs waiting

to be wrapped into towels.

Stretched on the carpet

all three will find a place

to fall asleep and dream.

Marcel Toussaint © 2014

Shadow Under the Bridge

The Joys of Winter

The nights are the darkest of the year

the silence interrupted by the crackling of the logs

lit with blue and yellow flames jetting mellow

reflections to the room, the shadows waltzing

reaching across the room, the heat stroking

my face while I am wrapped in a throw

in my favorite wingchair dreaming of poetry.

 It is a19th century moment held in time.

I do not seem to escape my past as a child

captivated by logs alive, the flames forming

new patterns, the red hot cinders glowing

in an endless ballet unrehearsed and fresh.

A delightful entertainment until midnight

when my eyes will close for sleep.

In my dreams is a slideshow of carriage

outings to the market place for the day.

The distance from home took a half hour

of rhythmic horse shoes hitting the cobblestones,

the “cocher” high on his seat

every so often crackling his whip in the air

to keep the horses attentive to their task.

Mediterranean living was spectacular

ignoring many of the new mechanical marvels

that today we cannot live without.

As a child it was fun to learn how to manage

in a culture holding to the romantic past,

where candles were used as a matter of fact

when a light switch was not in the room.

Marcel Toussaint © 2015

Butterfly

You are so ethereal and so fragile.

You conserve energy so dutiful

to stay delicate, fresh and beautiful,

a butterfly with a great profile.

Graceful, you handle yourself very light,

your wings brilliant, like colorful flowers,

quickly hiding at first sign of showers,

paper-thin stained glass in flickering flight.

After long day you must stop at sundown

with the disappearing sun’s golden rays

shining low, signaling time-up for plays.

For butterflies flying, comes a rest down.

The day is for your glory, not the night,

for the fields with flowers you need to view.

I shall wait for daybreak after the dew,

a warming sun and your spirited flight.

Marcel Toussaint © 2014