I.M. Pei

Sitting in the plaza of the Louvre

my mother asks me if I remember being a child

the summer we tried to visit an imperial garden in Beijing

where there is a hotel designed by the same man

who designed this glass pyramid behind us

an architect famous for designing structures

that harmonized precisely with their environments—

did I think this Louvre entrance

glittering with the sun that never seems to set on the European summer

the plaza filled with pigeons walking

through the dry reflecting pools and small children

climbing over each other’s heads and screaming—

did I think it could be considered one of his successes

Many yards away crowds of tourists materialize from the green of the Tuileries

carrying wax paper packets of chocolate croissants and stirring up eddies of yellow dust

and beyond that the carnival

Remember my mother says that day we arrived

too late in the evening

the gate was closed and we were turned

from the entrance: my sister and I

ran down the wide dirt path

did I remember the hotel which fit

so tenderly into the thickets

that in construction the builders felled

not a single tree

Quiet Night Thought

after Li Bai

It’s a clear night; the moon is out.

When I was young, the four of us

in the car, coming late from someplace

under its steady glow,

my mother used to say,

Look up, there’s the moon

following us home.

Then I grew up and learned everyone

has a relationship with the moon.

Because I have not drawn the curtains

my room is flooded with its cool light,

purer than the light of streetlamps.

No snow yet this winter,

but frost carpets the world beyond.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been home,

in the car, listening to my mother talk.

When I was young, I wouldn’t get in

unless we could hold hands between the seats.