remember flowers on your front step,
the unknown admirer, the friendly neighbor
our hearts could flutter, hoping he was
the one who left them, the timid one,
the handsome one who averted his eyes
when you looked his way.
across the ocean, they celebrate
La Fête du Travail, the day when no one works,
when Lilies of the Valley are passed from
the gardener to the neighbor, from
the shy young man to a maiden on
the street, they drink a glass that
night in the local pub,
let's raise a glass to a day
without work, a celebration of life.
[Les muguets: Lillies of the Valley.
I have a full garden of them.
Don't sleep next to them as they
give you bizarre dreams.
Thanks for Michele for letting me
know of this French tradition ]
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