I can take you to Paris by picking up my pen.
You inhale a fragrant odor of spring, with a hint of something only Paris supplies.
From the Pâtisseries fragrant smells of baked bread linger in the air.
You can watch the activity of everyday people
as you sit and drink an espresso at an outdoor café.
A child holds tightly to his mother as they wait in line to ride the carousel.
You walk along the Seine feeling the sun soak into your skin.
Couples lie on the bank, reading books, drinking wine, picnicking.
Painters set up their easels and pick up brushes and paints;
They paint their iron lady, la Tour Eiffel.
Someone is calling my name, back from my daydream.