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France Jodoin

Oils on linen

A cloud's curtain in a far-off corner
Before the useful trouble of the rain
Between the soft moor and the soft sky
Blue curtains of the sky scatter the silver dew
Hidden in the stillness of noon
If i think of a king at night fall
Like a pink thread loosened from the sky
Meanwhile the sun squints
Morning is a place for dew
Still as the hourglass
The other landscape
The showers beat on broken blinds
The sleepy rythm of countless hours
The wind blows a thousand whispers
To see the summer sky is poetry though never in a book it lie
Where melodious winds have birth
Where you must move in measure, like a dancer
The sun and fog contested the government of day
The web of life is woven
Time dissolves itself Dyptich
Who must be up to call the world and dress the sleepy day
Inhale the different dawn
The evening on the day leans
The hills in purple syllables
Doesn't - always - move
So short a thing to sigh
The web of life is woven
An hour is a sea between you and me
A carriage awaits at 4 o'clock
Harvest of luxurious time
It will be windy for a while until it isn't
Like vaporous shapes half seen
Memory stirring with spring rain
Not knowing when the dawn will come
Seek not to save the future waves of time
The little things in life were the big things
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
The sky which sews and drops her purple hem
Tripping by in high-heeled ribbon shoes
Wander like a breeze by sandy shores
What is not worth a little hour or more
With perfume and pride
A boarder fantasy of branches and flowers
Dreams browse on from the shores of oval oceans
How softly sinks that trembling sun
It were folly fair dame
I would roam and play with the mermaids
Like red threads loosened from the sky
Muddy feet that press to early coffee stands
Noise of songs and clapping hands
Outside the window, leaning in, branches of a wisteria grin
The clouded forms of long past history
The first grey of the morning filled the east
The fog rubs its back upon the window panes
The little things in life were the big things
The showers beat on broken blinds
The sky tirelessly sewing, drops her purple hem
The sleepy rythm of a hundred hours
Waiting for a knock upon the door
Your cup is rubby rimmed
A breath of pine and the woodsong fog
The naming of dogs is a difficult matter
A print of a vermillion foot
After the novels, the teacups and the skirts that trail along the floor
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
If the lady and gentleman whish to take their tea in the garden
She smoothed her hair and put a record on the gramophone
After the novels, after the skirts that trail along the floor
Towards the door we open into the rose garden
Laughter tinkled among the tea cups
The golden fog that robs its back upon the window panes
Summer laid her supple glove
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
Put your shoes at the door and prepare for life
Que vous êtes joli! Que vous me semblez beau!
I have known the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase
Down silent courts and secret passages
I remember a slice of apricot pie and a bitten macaroon
The silken girl bringing sherbet
There is a time for the wind to brake the loosened pane
Do I dare eat a pear
The notion of some infinitely gentle thing
Présence de l'absence
Run softly until i end my song