When we first met the larches showing pink,
hinted at May. We linked our hands. We kissed
over the garden gate. Silly? I know.
Now you are gone, the latch behind you fallen,
the larches might as well sleep under snow.
The gate hangs lifeless on a broken hinge
since May, last May, eternities ago.
Posted for G-Man's weekly 55 word request. Plenty more if you follow the link.
