Toward the middle of April the roses of Paris that had been lying dormant and naked all winter burst forth from their slumber and filled the hot afternoons’ heat waves with fragrant, riotous splendor. The ruddy, fluffy variety near the children’s playground in Parc Monceau were especially intense, as together the thousand sweet pink heads released the deepest, ripest perfume into the midday swelter. The lightness of the color – such a dewy pink – belied the richness and depth of the odor, and the field of soft pink offered a citrus-y refreshment to all who bent to enjoy them.

In the late evenings, around 9 o’clock, that sun finally began to fall behind the buildings and a coolness crept into the air. In certain parts of the park, mostly toward the south-eastern entrance, the scent of night-blooming jasmine seeped into the breeze and floated as heavenly harp notes in the dewey atmosphere.

But now those roses have lost their heads and the heat has given way to rain, and there’s not even the smell of fresh worm flesh on the sidewalks.

(The roses above are not the same as the ones from Parc Monceau; these I captured just near the Grand Palais).

**Today’s post in honor of Rosa Rankin-Gee’s winning the inaugural Paris Literary Prize!!**