The Luxembourg
Gardens in Spring
circa 1910
A breeze winds itself
in and out of this vignette. Momentarily it tickles the child's hair
as she loses herself in whatever pebble or tassel of weeds that her eye finds
clawing at her shoe. It then slivers over the ground, like an unseen blanket, to brush against the light ruffles of skirts and string laces, causing a dog to
steal a slight yawn and then - as if to make up for its brief laziness - to
alertly stiffen its aged, somewhat wonky ears into two miniature patrol guards,
each of which twitches its thorough disapproval at the disruptive nature of
those wavering hemlines (it lets out a low bark).
Now it steers away: the soft wind splits itself into two puffs, maybe three, and they hastily shoot up the ripening spine of a bright young thing, its knobby branches quickly bowing and flirting with such dashing gusts of air. They jump, they leap, they make their final pirouettes and then paff! The applauding leaves and clattering sticks cease their noise; they fall still, they resume their stagnant thoughts. But the playful breezes refuse to pause - victim after victim they stroke and tease; if boredom strikes, they spread their game into the shadows, multiplying their tiny terrors into the dancing grey-blue shapes that know no boundaries, that recognise no crevice or patch too small. The clusters of parasols, the lulls of conversations, the red ribbon on the boy's straw hat: all enjoy the whispers of spring.
Now it steers away: the soft wind splits itself into two puffs, maybe three, and they hastily shoot up the ripening spine of a bright young thing, its knobby branches quickly bowing and flirting with such dashing gusts of air. They jump, they leap, they make their final pirouettes and then paff! The applauding leaves and clattering sticks cease their noise; they fall still, they resume their stagnant thoughts. But the playful breezes refuse to pause - victim after victim they stroke and tease; if boredom strikes, they spread their game into the shadows, multiplying their tiny terrors into the dancing grey-blue shapes that know no boundaries, that recognise no crevice or patch too small. The clusters of parasols, the lulls of conversations, the red ribbon on the boy's straw hat: all enjoy the whispers of spring.
