Keith and I had a chance to visit Paris last spring.  I can’t help but imagine us in place of those people who were hurt in the attacks.  We spent hours in the Canal St. Martin/Hôpital Saint-Louis area and even dined just around the corner from Le Petit Cambodge.  If we had more time, we might have been at the Bataclan theater.  Maybe I will share some of our beautiful moments and food with you later but right now my heart is heavy.  I spotted and photographed a lot of poppies (a symbol of remembrance) while we were there and thought it appropriate to accompany this poem written during the First World War by John McCrae.

In Flanders Field

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

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