lilacs in the sun

As I duck 

under the awning 

of the front door

of a restaurant I’ve 

never before visited, I have 

an irresistible longing 

for your presence—for 

no other reason 

but the fact that the yellow paint 

on the walls is a certain 

shade of summer sunset 

and the shadows 

between the windows 

hold oil paintings

of Paris scenes, 

like the ones that used to line

the walls of the orchard 

house. And the candles

on the tables light up 

different aspects of the

faces of people

illuminating their smiles  

like lilacs in the sun

and I think, 

as I sit down 

at a glass table, 

I see your reflection  

smiling up at me 

as the condensation drips 

down the side of my glass

into puddles. 

But like water 

on asphalt, 

you evade my grasp 

just as I come 

within reach. 

After Lilacs in the Sun, Claude Monet