Peggy Simson Curry
Long after we are gone, Summer will stroke this ridge in blue; The hawk still flies above the flowers, Thinking, perhaps, the sky has fallen And back and forth forever he may trace His shadow on its azure face. Long after we are gone, Evening wind will languish here Between the lupine and the sage To die a little death upon the earth, As though over the sundown prairies fell A requiem from a bronze-tongued bell. Long after we are gone, This ridge will shape the night, Lifting the wine-streaked west, Shouldering the stars. And always here Lovers will walk under the summer skies Through flowers the color of your eyes.