the bay

the bay is home like no place will ever be,

ranging from the green mountain hilltops

to the icy water in half moon bay

when my feet reach the sea,

the golden bridge that glimmers

when sunny rays hit it just right,

the fog that clouds our vision - 

it used to bother me when i was younger,

but now it’s a comfort, and a delight.

in chrissy field, i bask in the breeze,

while soft grass cradles my figure

as if i was a feather, putting my mind at ease,

there is no wrong and right,

there is no black or white,

rather shades of red, orange, and blue,

as my eyes wander to take in the sight,

but that is the problem in the bay,

there are too many sights, 

yet too little time.

each visit is a different experience,

a different sense of emotion and wonder.

is it the fresh mountain air at muir woods,

or is it the vibrant bugs that reside under?

the creek that i found near my local library, 

the drive down to los gatos in the rain, 

i could’ve sworn i was in the hobbit,

the way the foliage called my name.

and though i could make this poem longer,

i must refrain, because the bay’s beauty is endless,

and no amount of words will be able to claim

the memories it molds, rich and strong,

and more importantly, the hearts that it conquers.