I smell the fragrance of mock orange
intermingled with peony, the most delicate pink.
it's breakfast, black dog at my feet waiting
expectantly for a bowl, a few licks of yogurt.
I turn to French grammar and set a timer.
it's too hard to tackle with no limit,
I look hopefully in the middle of drills
on "auquel" and "dont", la raison pour laquelle
I find it all so difficult, French grammar
on the heels of unknown English grammar.
the timer rings and I close the book
a little futher ahead, but not much.
this much is true and M. will know
it.
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