One Last Year

No more summer hanging heavy in my head,
or pastel sunlight playing peek-a-boo.
No more fragrance of a fresh hay bed,
no more carefree golden days with you.

And no more crisp journeys to the end of the dirt road,
no more films of gossamer on the pools.
No more wormy apples snagged from branches low,
or early shading in the hills, staying out despite the rules.

No more thick hairs and straw dust in a shaft of humid light,
no more frigid fingers clutching icy steel.
No more sprays of snow in the midst of a smooth flight,
or numb and aching stone bruises that never seem to heal.

I can smell the song of shoots stretching for the sun.
I've heard the warble in the fields of desperate, primal call.
The taste of our last spring is heavy on my tongue.
It ended too fast to savor, and still more snow will fall.