Calgary

I live in a city at the foot of the Rockies, where the sky is
        the bluest of blue,
      June descends as hails the size of pebbles,
     winter lasts half a year despite chinook winds.
It taught me that west coast is my playground:
valleys and ridges with indelible names, winding roads punctuated by
   alpine lakes and campgrounds.
Where ever I go I miss my Yoho, Kananaskis, and Kootenay.

Rare it was to find candlenuts, shrimp chips, and red chillies,
yet they are now as easy as tzatziki, guacamole, mirin, and hummus.
They mingle, enhancing each other, so I sip tamarind soup with
soba noodles; bacon with red chillies could be next to try.
Its gastronomy expands, culture evolves. From cowboys of
           foothills and prairies to globe-reaching
petrochemical and energy exploration.

I was not from around here: a furthest point from my birthplace:
           a fate sealed by another luck.
I have grown to embrace this land:
       A huge mass cradling the Arctic, sheltered from perils of
global warming, political upheavals, international trade disputes.
A fortress cursed by luck of geography:
     northern edges of two vast oceans, impenetrable floe archipelago.