Two wandered brazenly up the hill
and trip-tumbled down
faster, faster still,
while sheet lightning licked
at its manicured toes.

Once at rest
one woke up,
the other not yet,
waiting for a signal
of safety, safely he sleeps.

She waited on him
noon and night
as raindrop breezes blew by
from short summer showers
and cream daffodil skies.

They're laying in the field
awaiting the arrival
of Eternity:
she sits cross-legged
while caressing his brow.

"It must be fear," says one.
"I'm just comfortable here,"
comes reply.
The truth is,
he wants back up the hill,

wants to descend in butterfly spins
again, 'til spiderwebs and weeds
fill his knotty chocolate head,
and his sweet lover sings
of everlasting green.

She dead-still waits
while golden trees die
and powder begins to fall
on a hill never to be tumbled
the same way again.

She dead-still waits
while he heavy slumber sighs,
ear cupped for the call
on the hill never to be tumbled
by the two of them again.