The garden I walk through this Columbus Day morning is Cezanne’s Vase de Fleurs. Its corridors and hedgerows, its flowering trelis and mossy banks, and fragrant shadows provide my autumn refuge.
In fourteen hundred and ninety-two Columbus sailed the Ocean Blue, and from the outshirts of a city named to commemorate his oceanic leap into the unknown, I write near the District of Columbia. I wander paths planted and pruned by nineteenth century French transplanted Cezanne on this day of Our Lord, October Tenth, Two Thousand Eleven in the U.S.A.
Just me and my handy dandy ball point pen. Five hundred and nineteen years later, bringing various fellows named Paul along for the ride since “time is not linear.”
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