It was springtime when I left her,
me, a homebody most of the time,
her, a social butterfly all of the time,
incompatible, unworkable, no hope,
so I had to say goodbye and leave.

Her, dead at 53 decades ago, me
almost dead a few years ago.
Maybe we’ll meet again in the
wintertime when I join her in death
and we’ll be compatible and in love.

Bob Boyd