Your promise,
No climate, no day,
No tropical paradise
Or Provencal locale
Can match your beauty.
Your skies contain
Cobalt blue
And errant wisps of cloud
Placed there to please the eye.
“Sweater weather,” we locals
Call it, noting the cool air
And warm sun,
A perfect pitch and pivot
Between light and dark,
Life and death,
Fecundity and decay,
Keeping the heart on edge,
Enough to call forth
Its truest truths.
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