Precipice

Under the hammocked bend
of a shrinking sky,
the latticework of moaning
trees poking into lost illusions,
you and I walk a path
littered with missing friends 
and once bright-eyed lovers.
Older now, we no longer
put up our peaches for winter.
We are swept aside 
as the buffalo streak past,
plunging over the edge 
of the approaching precipice.
You hold me until the dust settles,
then pick flowers, weave them
into a pink & blue halo for my hair.



Pris Campbell
©2008



Buffalo image found HERE


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