By a Spring Fire
There is a place
Where boughs of singing birds are swaying;
Little colts with wobbly legs are playing;
And bluebonnets and paintbrushes grow.
Once my love and I rode horses, o’er
Rolling hills like rough golf courses.
So long, long ago.
Now you are gone and I grow old;
Shut away from days of gold;
And the evening memories glow,
In the fire of early Spring’s cold.