Winter got my massages,

Touching he puddles in the dark.

A kiss in the morning was silent.

The fields grow barren,

The daises slipping,

Home grew into something more.

Skies pressed puddles.

I wondered how temperamental

Grass-stained socks can be.

I remembered the field

Of bemused lovers.

We knew the end.

Touching the sky,

Slipping through our fingers.

Light only knew the dark.