A Work of Art

Just outside of the Musée

Just outside of the Musée

As a post-high school trip, two of my friends and I decided to travel to Paris. We are only here for 5 days, but even as this first day comes to a close, we are in love with the city. Sitting here in our rented apartment, the window open, listening to music from the accordion player on the streets stream through the large open window, a gentle breeze cooling the room, the rush I felt as we left the airport- the realization that we are truly in Paris- hits me again.

Our first visit was to the Musée de l’Orangerie to see the Monet’s Nymphéas- his cycle of water-lily paintings. After we left the museum, we stayed outside for a while, sitting in an upper level of le Jardin des Tuileries, overlooking the city, and this was where I wrote this poem.

A Work of Art

Past the looming arches, ‘neath
an oval ceiling with filtered
light, the colours
bleed into the other.
Where one starts
and the other begins
is indiscernible.

Away from the city’s prying
eyes, tucked away
like a secret refuge,
the water flows without flowing,
trees sway without moving,
and flowers bloom without even living.
Atop long canvases, framed
ornately to colour the white walls,
the Water Lilies
and Weeping Willows
come to life.

Outside these walls,
the alarms are blaring,
cars are honking,
and all sound
is simply noise- a part
of la vie parisienne
the muffled conversations
and hushed footsteps give
the illusion of silence:
all sound becomes music.