You stand

Under a plethora of maple leaves,

A flamboyant display of color 

Paired with a crystal blue sky.

You breathe

An aroma of crisp floral scents,

Which frosts the tip of your nose with beauty.

The sight is wonderful,

perfect,

But it does not give you sustenance.

It is not your bubby’s steaming hot soup,

Spiced with paprika and smiles,

Which brings warmth to your face.

It is not the sight 

That makes you beem,

Or brilla como la luna.

No, it is not that.

Some sights can be wonderful,

But perhaps solitary.

Melancholy.

It is not home.