The urge a few months ago
to register and forever save
instantaneous traces of spring,
showers on a canvas of south winds.
That trip from Paris to Nice
Down Route National 7
at a hundred miles per hour,
all for in the end
a canvas freshly coated
on the roof of my white Citroen.
The heat, the cold, the wind and the rain
how they all combined with the light
to age my canvas prematurely-
thirty or forty years condensed
into one single day.
The driver I am only
an architect of air, soon buried
in bowels of earth but today
I am not as afraid
as I was yesterday of being
a souvenir of the future.
Free may the impossible arrive
and declare his Kingdom quickly.