the poetry of a first morning in bern: rising with baby in blue light, tossing open windows, peeking down at the saturday market, thinking of fresh bread warm in our hands. the pop of espresso. the romance of my husband's sweater draped over a chair. the marvel: these walls have known five centuries (these stairs, six). trucks, left by our host, loved by our boy. notes of la valse d'amélie. tousled-feathered-golden hair. raspberry yogurt kisses, the sweetest of my life. dimpled hands mapping my face, just like i dreamed. no, better. sound of market chatter down below. bundling into coats and walking for sweet buns, passing them back and forth, baby licking dark chocolate from our fingertips.
and later: lost between medieval streets, lost count of milchkaffees, sixteenth century folk figures dancing atop fountains, swinging on swings, snow on fairytale rooftops, fondue and glüwein above the rose garden on the hill. church bells sang us awake, sang us through hours, sang us all the way to the bend of the glacier-green river for sausages and spaetzle.
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