those days in cuba

I have come to remember,
even when the times might not be right,
(but who determines when the time comes?)
those days in Cuba- rainy warm days.
When I met great minds in La Havana,
the poets of sand fresh in their thoughts,
with everlasting ideas:
love and family
friends and music
revolution and ideas
but all those
with a responsibility of being part of it.
The houses were simple and the paint cracked
on every wall,
coffee had lots of sugar
to keep you through the morning hours,
and the poetry all around the place,
hanging from the acacias,
breaking the pavement
like the roots of the trees,
melting on the stone walls,
beaming with strength.
I wished I could feel that way whenever I visited another place.
But I haven't.