Our Time

When we had our time,
blooms burst from barren trees.
Virgins rose at midnight
to discard their chastity.

You were but a whisper
in the wind--
our days so fleeting.

I barely remember
the caress in your voice,
the slap of our boat beating hard 
to safe harbor, come weekends.

Were your eyes green, like
the first fat grass of spring
or, perhaps, dusty gray?

I only remember turning
late in the night, body
plump with need,
to find you had gone,
covers tossed back,
one lone sock , your talisman,
left behind on the floor.

Pris Campbell
©2004


Photograph: Archives


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