City of Trees

Every city has it's moment,
A time,
A season,
When everything seems perfect,
Even,
(I imagine),
DeLand,
Or Flint,
Or Plano,
Or Youngstown,
Or...
Phoenix.

Surely,
There are cities,
Far and wide,
All across this world of ours,
That are in perpetual blossom,
No matter the season.
In these realms,
There is a constant beauty,
An element of magic,
Like an intoxicating perfume,
Powerful enough,
And indeed capable,
Of inducing enchantment,
Upon both citizens and visitors alike,
All the year long.

Spring is one of those seasons,
Maybe the season,
Here,
In the City of Trees,
Sacramento.

It is not a romantic city.
It is,
Perhaps,
Mildly pedestrian,
A former star now eclipsed,
A backwater,
The butt of a joke.

But to see her like this,
When spring has painted her,
Vibrantly,
Exhuberantly,
And little flower petals flutter to earth,
Every minute,
As if a rainbow has shattered overhead,
And her trees,
Her glorious trees,
Of myriad shape and size,
Are reaching for the sky in verdant bliss,
Leaves near full,
Washed clean by recent rains,
It is to see her perfectly.

It could be,
That I,
A recent-ish arrival,
Am still enamored by her.
It is likely that,
In all fairness,
I suffer from a puppy-love sort of view,
Which allows me to ignore her faults,
And blemishes,
Shambling transients,
And unsavory corners.

Nevertheless,
It is spring,
And this city is a marvel.
She rests tenuously,
Yet languidly,
On the banks of,
Not one,
But two rivers,
Both of which could easily,
Quickly,
Inundate her leafy streets,
And ancient architecture.

Yet,
It is spring,
And it is,
Frankly,
Easy to be swayed by her charms.
For beneath these broad branches,
In the cool shade of her namesake trees,
It is so enticing to walk,
And gawk,
And wish that you could call her home.

And then how wonderful,
When you remember that you do.

4-26-19