Posted in Poetry

Campfire by L. M. Montes

Pine needles gather as pines tend to scatter
when dry invades the dew,
on trails I saunter,
over and yonder,
to a campfire and a lingering you.
As an ebony sky flicks on its lights,
and fires die then smoke,
your hand touches gentle
the side of my temple,
when I lay my head just right.


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