Seasons in the sun

The air was crisp and smelled of June,
On those bright sunny afternoons,
When I was five and you were six,
You wore that paper crown I fixed.

That field of sun-dried marigolds,
Boisterous chuckles as it holds,
From when we captured scurrying bees,
We skinned our hearts and skinned our knees.

Decks of cards, puzzles and dice,
Chilled lemonade and mango rice,
Animal camp songs and too much TV,
Playing doctor-doctor and tea-party.

I remember your mum would often worry,
When we left home in a hurry,
And returned looking medium-rare,
With muddy elbows and messy hair.

It was a time for books by the score,
At the library, backyard and icecream store,
Misspelled words and overused commas,
When we recreated them in our pajamas.

It doesn't seem too long ago,
When I search for that time in a photo,
But I'm twenty one and you're twenty two,
It wasn't the season as much as it was you.