The Campfire


I remember autumn
when aspen held a single leaf
and cliffs imperfectly concealed
their thin shadows.
A campfire blazed with
dry sticks that hissed and snapped,
brandy’s warmth stalled the chill
when winds slowed
to inhale, then excited the flame.


I loved the mountain side,
sage brush and streams, tumble weeds
on plains, ditch and field,
prairie grass
flattened by hooves.
When smoke trailed
to reach the sky,
that stretched tight from side to side,
we told tales
from lingered memories.


When day began to lose its glow
the campfire held
crimson with amber hues.
I watched until all sparks
were ashy grey
and wondered what stories
the campfire could tell.






© By Marilyn Terwilleger(mterwilleger@bresnan.net)






 



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Haiku: Morning Mist (several authors)

Autumn Is Nigh

Out in the Country

Seasons (new author)

That Old Rusted Bucket

I Wonder Sometimes




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