In springtime we were younger led
‘Neath skies of blue to fields of red,
Where happiness was close to touch
And we did not think overmuch.
How strange the minutes melt to days
And love gets stuck in alleyways
Of city gray and urban blight
That leaves us feeling, but not right.
There were no harbingers to say
“Go back! There was that other way
You used to go, with much less said,
‘Neath skies of blue in fields of red.”
In autumn now, the air grows cold:
I think I know I’ve gotten old,
My words diffuse, my thoughts disjoint —
Am I beside or missed the point?
But you are my all-season love,
And those fields that I’m dreaming of
Were what they were when you were there,
So since you’re here, what do I care?