I pick dandelions
in the early spring
when I think of you
She loves me . . .

I cut the rose blooms
in the summer morn
And I am pricked
by the remembrance of you

I walk in the autumn gold
as I shuffle with the agony
of the memory
Yes I do

Now in my winter's demise
I wrap the cloth of your smile
around the cold heart's desire
that I once had for you

There will be no dandelions
this spring
No roses this summer
No leaves of autumn's color
Without the smile of you