In the long, half-yellow pasture grass,
small apples lie
like once-full promises, now fallen, forgotten,
lost to memories of ladybugs or worn-out wasps.
The narrow, wooden plank bridge,
placed with care over a creek that once sang
joyful, watery melodies in tune with spring
and sonorous summer, now looks wholly gray,
like the clay-lined soil, cracked and scaly,
that has started to petrify without rain.
Your love was also the rain, reviving
every sun-seared leaf on every twig,
in every tree or underbrush.
The red ribbons we tied on a scrub oak still shine,
warm as a whisper, fluttering like fringe
or strands of time that tease my mind.
The most fun we ever had was playing tag,
and how I loved being caught and held.
Then there was the time we tried sleigh riding,
although fully grown up,
and we coasted through a white world of wonder,
except I squealed, startled by the last muddy hump
that upset the sled altogether into the snow.
Once you were gone, life became
just a dry, dreary pantomime.
Now all the apples have worms.
After weeks have passed and parted,
those ribbons are shredded, torn, and twisted,
and even the creek is tired of trying to sing.
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