fingertip

Many of the days

are unerringly hot

beneath the gingham sky

of blue and white.

With cars  that know

their way so well

that they are tranquil

for their

repetitive spell.

Under this dry

sun, with orange groves

around and now

with your fingertips

that rest on my arm.

If there had been

this undying sun

and endless wanderings,

that we were at

once, young.

In this foothill basin

uncreased by breeze.

These would be

sweet lives to lead.