Soft are the shadows
under the trees,
splashed with the color
of new fallen leaves,
in Autumn.

A bird nest, perched
in the crotch of a tree,
vacant and empty
where life used to be,
in Summer.

Frosts hoary coat, covers
plants and the ground
while snow, against windows
makes nary a sound,
in Winter.

Soon, the cold bleakness
of Winter, will soon pass
as color and growth
return to the grass,
in Spring.

A lonely tear, slides down my cheek
as I think of this life of ours.
It pains me when recalling you,
now the tear has become two.
I am not weeping, there is no more.
Just the tick of a clock.

My mind is running away from me.
I think I need a pre frontal lobotomy.
Thoughts that are stuffed in every place,
Wedged in cracks or any empty space.
I need some time. Time to think
Or I may have to turn to drink.

The sight of children playing
brings memories from the past,
of tire swings
or throwing rocks
and days that last and last.
Riding bikes, with fenders gone
while racing through the street
with nickel cones, bubble gum
and sockless, shoeless feet.

(This a redo, published in 2017)