The notes began to float like bubbles through the air
And I, in unprecedented wisdom, made no move
To catch them as they wound about my hair.
Excitement flowed through my feet climbing the airport stair,
Which the fresh pine and salt scents did nothing to soothe,
Nor abandoned me with a ridiculous ferry fare.
Poetry invaded the streets with contentment so bald-faced and bare;
In the hills I found my name in their Louvre.
Here, no aggression exists, only dare.
Fresh fruit, fresh fish, fresh dreams, and fresh care
Are piled high upon crates with nothing to prove
But being luminous and righteous and rare.
But wafting by richly, us mortals to ensnare,
Is a dark roasted legend, fantastically smooth,
Like the reiteration of every writer’s prayer.
It promises faithfulness and none of the despair
For which we yet remain desperate in this creative youth
That propels our souls forward until the final swear.
They say the climate’s bite is lucky, that it will take us there
And for now I’m emboldened, my old self removed.
So I guess it’s what they call a rather tricky affair,
Because on my face this place I will always wear.