by 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.