Throughout
the nexus of the seasons –
mais pas du tout for
sexist reasons –
la plupart des vents take a
feminine swell and sway.
Subscribing
to a stale cliché
of female
unpredictability or fickle whim
is not
why winds prefer to be “her” than “him”.
When
they appear – to rile and rear
and roil
the atmosphere –
they
find their swerves and billows –
seductively
rustling the weeping willows –
never
don’t also arouse the clouds
as if
they were gaping and leering crowds
in a
burlesque house.
Just as
to a mouse
a cat connives
herself into a wily pest,
it serves
their purpose best
quand la plupart des vents deviennent les
femmes. Well,
most
winds choose to go with the canny bombshell
Brigitte
Bardot –
though some
presume to loom with the guile and flow,
luring
night out of day, of Simone Signoret.
Elles sont pourquoi (quelque fois) vous trouvez
ici le français.
But don’t
become lugubrious or let français
frustrate.
Let your
pride abate: cherchez la femme in Google
Translate.
.
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