When the mistral came
And the city flocked
To the gift shop
Of L'Eglise de St.-Agricol
The nuns shooed away
Like oxen
With censers
Any visitors
Including our heroine
And Kiwi mother
Who traveled together
Mother and Daughter
The World
In hostels
And were then getting drenched
By an end of the world fury,
Only to learn they had to buy
Something to be saved.
The rest is confusing.
I find myself on hair pin
Turning
Switchbacks in the Blue Ridge
In December Smokie blackness.
I prayed
There would be someplace
To stop.
