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.
We walk along the Seine feeling the sun soak in your skin.
Stop and watch a man argue with a waiter,
who orders a pastry and an espresso.
A child holds tightly to his mother as they wait in line to ride the carousel.
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, the Eiffel Tower.
Someone is calling my name, back from my daydream.