The Cradle of Colour & Esprit


… and the slow lips that eat and drink and love and speak
that slow luxurious language, savoring each word like a long-missed lover; …
… and the slow-moving nuns, the black habits dragging the swollen ground;
and the slow river that cradles it all, and the chicory coffee …
… that cuts through it all, slow-boiled and black as dirt;
and the slow dreams and the slow-healing wounds and the slow smoke of it all …
… slipping out, ballooning into the sky—slow, deliberate, and magnificent.
– From Going Home: New Orleans by Sheryl St. Germain