The finest mist of rain falls down
upon a grassy hilltop crest.
Far in the East, the sun is born
and gently wakes the world at rest.

A silhouetted oak stands tall,
its twisted branches hug the sky;
Beneath its bough I rest my feet
and listen to the Spring breeze sigh.

And at my side there sits a stone,
a single slab of charcoal slate
which marks the spot where once we sat
and through the sky watched comets skate.

"As Summer turns to Fall, my dear,"
you'd say, "all good things have to end."
But here I'll sit and dream with you,
my tender, dear departed friend.