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.