The pink city sits atop the crown,
like a luminous opal,
shifting in the light,
expanding like the Pacific plate,
glued to the canvas of a sultry Monet portrait,
that rides atop a pale blue sea.
Writers come to feel it,
students rally upon its’ breast,
the elderly folk who made staying real
rock in their chairs
with the soft glossy stare of abundance….
and the hikers
press their boots against the soft
earth of the velvet mountains
that hug
this quick stretch of California,
knowing that winter
never really comes.
