 French la Vie A winding road, dry grass bending with the breeze.
Stone underfoot, warm from the day.
A door opened—long ago, still open.
We’ve come again.
Vines stretch lazily over the hill,
olive trees whispering their promise for October.
The twist and turn of their trunks,
In harmony with everything around—
a mosaic of time and sun.
Everything speaks softly here.
Not of possession, but of welcome.
Not of grandeur, but of grace.
Sunlight pours over everything—
the shutters, the slope, the smallest leaf.
We stand inside it.
Bathed.
Thank you, Roger and Arnelle xxx
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