Bonjour Tristesse

The day was triste, gray clouds adrift like bags of crumpled rags, and through the wipers came the image he had feared. Portrait of la jeunesse, small dimples, dots to join and waiting for a kiss, so they could flash a smile, warmed from inside by fleeting thoughts, a million glow worms of her mind now painting rouge upon a hopeful face. He heard the thunder, saw the flash of lightning then, as angel tears fall softly now, his heart is unaware of fading light and trumpets glory still a confidence to know, my heart, be still.