He dances down the canals

            And spins with his arms out,

Painting black and white water

                       Purple and green

          As he dreams of tulips

He hears opera and understands

                Even though he doesn’t know the language

Mushrooms flutter on the soles of his feet

                 And the feet of his soul

    He eats gouda

                       And cries

      About trees

                 As he begs to become one.

At one with the butterflies and orchids,

   He revels in the dirt on his hands

              And the smoke in his lungs

   He knows he’s too young to think these thoughts.

                   Too old to love me.

          Too smart to rationalize,

So he looks into my eyes

                              And I realize

         Paris is not for me.