The Lost Kiss

The walking trail around the lake crunches like a full bags of crisps at a Fall football game. The oak leaf refuse curls frost burnt inward. The manmade lake still, motionless a covering of snow cone slurry drapes the depths. Prepubescent boys lob mud covered boulder bombs through the lakes sheath. Babies born in Winters night emerge enthroned in umbrella strollers whooshed in cocoon-buntings by proud twosomes through the Sping mud. Jogging homemakers with fish bottom white legs hurl themselves round and round the circular track careening past young lovers who can’t unplug. Missing the first kiss of Spring.