I loved him in a Summer's breeze, though Summer ripened into Fall. His Winter arms, a cooler squeeze, a chill became an April squall. A season's moment left ungrasped. I thought of love, but love is blind. Its daydreams easily unclasped. Untended, quickly they unwind. He left in Summer, with no glance; his mythful "white horse" ran away. My heart, he nicked with paper lance. I can't recall his face today. Promises penned in Summer's air are lost as they waft everywhere. March 20, 2023 for "A Simple Poetry Contest" poetry contest by John Lawless