picking wild flowers

from the dense pathway

leading to the lake

their petals, wilted

from the early morning rain

oldies faintly echoing

from across the hill

the damp,

warm smell of dusk

invades my body

the sun has gone to sleep

its piercing rays

no longer embrace my being

while millions of stars

hover over my perfect world

A gentle breeze caresses my face

flowing through the rusted holes

of the aged screen

gazing into the darkness

to see the ghostly willow

sway over the hill

faintly noticing the crescent lake

ripple

like the chipped away paint

on the pale cream siding

The poorly constructed shed creeks

as the cricket sings a melodic tune

while father time tugs

on my heavy eyelids