Morning in Paris

It’s morning in Paris,

and the city still sleeps,

though the sun has long risen

and the cat has long been stretched in the light

that washes over the quiet courtyard.

It’s summer in Paris,

and the city is still. Hot.

The scent of somebody’s balcony basil

filling the air with something green.

It’s Sunday in Paris,

and the city sleeps in,

allowing the usual twists and turns of a metropolis 

to settle and keep resting,

just a moment longer.