Roadside trees protect the farmer’s plows
They stand for miles, like well placed fence posts, true,
Aligned, an arboreal arch of bending boughs
That beckon me to venture: “Bienvenue.”
Provence’s countryside in colors true
with fragrant lavender, sunflowers gold,
Painting flashing vistas, reds and blues,
Imprinted in my mind’s eye, ever bold.
The tiny, one-lane towns for ages old,
Have flourished with their understated charm,
A small cafe, rough streets of cobblestones,
Where patrons chat with neighbors, pets on arm.
My map as guide, I motor surely on, content
that life is good, my days in France-well spent.