Giverny: Visiting the Garden

Imagine the artist come mornings by the river as the fresh wind blew innocent shadows toward the west: How accurately he painted, we think, trying ourselves to capture the light before the busses snake to the gate unleashing tourists talking in tongues of where they had been and what they ate. We take photographs to document that we were here in the garden, sitting by the pond or under the trellis before other strangers came, changing and rearranging how we see these flowers streams and trees, these footpaths leading eastward through the gate toward our other homes in other states.

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