My ears are stuffed with cotton,

The birds no longer sing,

The morning grass is paler,

And my coffee’s lost its zing.

My feet just seem to wander

On their own, remote control,

strolling past the places

That we had come to know.

The lake is still and lifeless,

The ducks have taken flight.

Our boat is in its moorings

its cover strapped down tight.

No more boat side picnics

Or sunset fishing trysts,

Your pole is hanging on the wall,

Instead of in your fist.

The roses dropped their blossoms

While the trees still grip their leaves,

The air is cold and thinner,

A season of pain and...

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