How does a city speak
from its parks and highways,
statues, pools, public monuments,
showing off its best side,
the thing that brought it glory
or sells its products?
I suppose, like people,
it depends.
Why does a face attract us?
The eyes, the whimsy of a tease,
lips full as peaches,
hair parted one way or another?
But there is one city that flirted,
seemed tireless with color,
smiled,
charmed,
had the lightness of soufflé.
Not Columbus,
not London,
not Rome,
although I have an affair with Rome.
It is Paris,
on a bus,
entering its streets.
I saw windows of amethyst
caused by dew,
windows of copper
catching the sun,
doors of satin
covered by shadows.
Blue slate roofs and alleys of romance,
with shafts of sky.
People with thin faces,
old men watching wine in glasses,
women with smart hats,
and young women lithe as saplings
leaving trails of light.
How did this old Gaelic town
stay so young?
A pool filled with coins,
churches with wings,
and painters,
with small white canvases of color
dripping flowers,
moods and crowds.