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The Scrambler
Of all the moments that repeat and repeat
I see the children flash across your face.
Their laughter that echoes like clover
Plush and intrepid on May hillsides.
Their radiance and high energy
That charms the maple pods into
A spinning whirl each year.
The youth crashing through
The woody caw of days.
The crow and the thistle,
The ether across the weathervane,
The weathered and the heat battered,
All call down the dark days of October
That deny the heady possibilities of Spring.

And oh Sarah, I wish,
And perhaps I wish wrong,
That the green hand of Spring pushing
Out the lush vines entwine us both and trellis
Our fresh and laughing bodies with its pale loveliness,
Its open yearnings, and enclose our souls in one sudden blossom
That flashes across the potent days of Spring and I wish that
In some unknown land this flower would be called forever
But perhaps the arrogance of asking is enough to
Summon the breathless dazzle of Summer
When the trembling gifts of Spring
Are lost to growth and design.
When the air churns with life
Making ready to flee.
The Weathered
My words left me
Hanging out a bus window
At Los Encuentros
Waving back at me.
Lost in the dusty descent,
In the open truck,
The light banter,
The liquid blue,
The hand on the glass,
The open stare,
And the thousand and something days
Of tonight and tonight
Gazing at the print on the dusty window.
And the dark road quiet waiting,
The gente always waiting.
I have loved you silently,
My soul split like a ripe sandia,
Cool and liquid red.
A bead forming on the tongue.
A word.
And none.
*Aaron Dailey lives in Davis, California.