Some walking days
the Sun smiled closer
to the ground and sidewalks
offered more treasure than bottlecaps--
a buttercup cracked through the concrete.
A dusty dime,still warm, yielded
itself to my pocket.
Some days we read. The rain
was a splash of symphony, creshendos
knocked on the screen door, arpeggios
danced on the roof, while inside
a pool of lamplight illuminated
the tweed chair which smelled
like a house, like the distinct
familiarity of all of you
as one of me lassoed the universe
quietly, turning a page.
Some days were wild dances,
a variegated festival of senses
where the ferris wheel creaked
and rolled to heaven and laughter
peeked through sticky crackerjack hands.
And even in those happiest balloon days
that deflated with overtired tears,
your arms made a smaller world safe.
The clouds were a cotton blanket then,
and waking from a nap began life anew.
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