in memoriam Carol Seymour, 1953-2013

It was Saturday, so Tom and I hiked
To Hemingson's pastures, not yet green.
The clouds blew off on the way, leaving
a blank and unending brilliance we liked.

At noon we stopped by an aspen tree
to rest and for swigs from the shared canteen.
The blue wind roared, the branches heaving.
We carved some initials where no one could see.

The knife was Tom's, but he let me start.
RN loves CS, in a makeshift heart.
My pal's came next, with Wendy Shaw,
whose hair was yellow like fields in thaw.
C's eyes outshone the April sky.
Then we set off again, Tom and I.