It’s hard not to go all googly-eyed smitten
over Santa Fe.
Their skies, a dreamy baby blue,
never stop smiling at you.
And their voluptuous hills,
rising rustic red in the distance,
beckon you to inhabit them.
At night, all starry-eyed, they twinkle down,
flash their diamond-studded stuff so boldly that, breathless, you turn away.
On Saturday, their square fills with music, a lively ranchero, yanking you off the sidelines to dance.
In bustling eateries, your mouth waters with desire
To imbibe their smokey green chile fire.
Art fills their streets in showy swatches of color that,
you think, go too far.
But nobody’s perfect,
you scrunch your nose as you gaze.
In time, that fuchsia-turquoise gaudiness
will grow on you.
Wait, stop, you protest,
just come for a visit,
this can’t get serious.
At the adobe bar with the roaring kiva,
pink cocktail napkin beneath perfectly-salted, pale lime margarita,
Santa Fe salutes you, glasses clink,
and coyly grins.
Remember, they say,
you picked me up.