Giverny Garden Poem by Clifton King

The garden is raucous with yellow and orange.
I find a bench in the shade.
Gravel pathways crunch beneath the crush of tourists.
A muted mix of Italian, French, that proper King's English,
and the American version, fills fragrance laden air.
Bees and butterflies are overwhelmed with choices.

A woman nearby talks on her cell phone, in French.
Her words, music I don't understand.
In the distance, school children play, raise a bouquet of laughter.
A girl, voice so soft I barely hear her request,
asks me to take her picture.

I intended to write a poem, share this garden with you, the reader.
Perhaps even mention Monet's house and beloved lily pond
just across the road, beyond those green garden gates.
But, I see my lady coming down the path, sunlight in her hair.
She is the only poetry that interests me at the moment.
I will tell you about the garden later.