Her fire-warmed, maple syrup eyes,
born in winters first snow.
her heart white, pure and cold.

Balsam, blue spruce, scotch, 
great gray owl, chickadee.
Skiing, snowboarding skating,
These are what she was. 

I was born in the late Spring, almost Summer,
my eyes, bright blue sparkling waters.
Angling for trout catch and release.

We were of an age growing up within the same region,
next door neighbors in a way.
But her heart was ice and I was the sun.

I asked her to prom and she complied,
we danced through the night.
Deep in the pale moon shadows.

We were wed in the fall and loved ‘til the spring,
when the baby she bore took her life.
Her daughter had fire-warmed, blue eyes, 
maple syrup hair and a heart that loved the year through.

We’d planted a spruce near the head of my loves grave
and it grew as her daughter did too.
At eighteen a boy came to take her.

I cried for my lost loves then.