The Smoke of Seasoned Wood

You know that special friend you had in High School, who then after High School you thought you could have been a better friend for, and then like 35 years later you meet up with her again?
What would you want to say?

The Smoke of Seasoned Wood

Then I courted as if in among Fall’s fruiting apple trees,
  Where white and Spring pink blossoms, having bloomed,
  Once so twiggy and spare,
Then burgeoned as if to pop their bras,
  (Bras being arms, of course, in French),
And many bowed, ready at the word
  To unbutton their maiden yield

First, it was you, so round and red cheeked,
  Who fell first upon my virgin basket,
Had I mistaken hard cider for the sweet, 
  I could not have become more drunk,
For delirious were your lips, delicious your first kiss,

But I, mid the fruiting groves of these buxom debs,
  A lustful boy with care unchained,
Could not as should a faithful swain refrain,
  And I reached out for another’s bough,
And I careless tossed your love in vain

Since then the years have passed,
My orchards have all been felled for firewood,
  And as time has hung me in the smokehouse of regret
At long last by their seasoned smoke, am I cured,
Though I have known the cider of many sweet lips,
  Some fresh and cool, some hard, some craft,
The sweetest was your loving draught