Paris in the Sun

They don’t believe in God here,
which is odd to me, considering
all these grand stone buildings –
bedecked with gleaming glass
and thumping bells.

And then I remember their story:
the king’s proposal by the pope,
and all those regal heads.

Still, it’s surprising to think
of empty wooden pews –
resplendent in some sparkling light,
no one to fill them as the sermon stretches,
stitching the past to present with
often said prayers and well-worn references.

His speech stumbles then,
as a scent wanders in –
and the stitching skips a loop,
leaving another soul to amble out and
find his own way to a bench,
table, and freshly broken bread.



I wrote this poem while studying abroad in Paris, considering different cultures.

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