On Delaronde street sweat runs beneath 200 year old oaks and between breasts, over gnarly roots and down the curve of a belly. Words of love, a melody in French, weave through the plumbago screen hiding a pristine white gallery and wafts on down the street, fading into the distant sounds of river traffic. Laughter crackles with the clink of glasses leaking from behind wrought iron, amid the slightly rustling palmettos. Fans and pages turn, sun tanned legs stretch out. The day dissolves into evening. Time to light the candles and pour the wine. _____________________________________ Shared on dVerse Poets Pub. … Continue reading Another Day On Delaronde