My head is lolling towards the open window where my hand lies out-stretched, conducting the breeze.
There is a sense of sweetness - not scent nor taste - that coddles my skin.
And in the blooms we stop to gaze at, I see a promise.
Of growth, of continuation...where age falls off into l'oubli...
...Most certainly for the olive trees that had died of a frost bone deep in the ground so many years ago and yet they wave wildly as I pass, gleefully reborn.
I reach for my camera and idly snap, catching at nothing in particular but the essence of all.
Remi is driving next to me and I here him quietly chide me for being so casual in my photography. "It's not respectful," he tells me for the tenth time. A smile rises on my lips and I snap again, kissing the air.
Doesn't he know that I am in love with the softness of the Provençal spring?