Barefoot in skirt with tattered hem
Rising from the shallows where the Embarcadero would stand.
She turned, her hair flowing over her shoulders.
Pirouetted, changing as she span,
Her hair caught up, a trident in her hand as she poses
High above Union Square.
She lies on her back on Hippie Hill
Staring at the ribbons of fog dancing on the edge of blue sky.
Acid rainbows, Cannabis kiss
Dancing with the Dead at the Fillmore.
Tomorrow is here, Love is the answer.
My younger self dances, kicks over mushrooms in the wet grass.
A skirt of stars, pinpricks of Light in darkest night.
Chrome boots with heels pushing her up to the sky.
Thin as the beams of steel holding up the high rises.
San Francisco has always had a taste for the finer things.
A talent for standing on the knife edge.
Techie dreams, her artists driven away, for now.
We may yet return
When her Phoenix falls,