sitting pen idle in hand
eyes glaring beyond lines,
glancing to the elderly man
on the time-touched lawn chair,
with eyes fixed on the
freshly planted field,
fixed on the days past,
the light wans over
into an early spring storm,
silver streaked white
peers over the rim of the valley,
leaving ashen streak
across all it touches,
the sound against virescent tin
entrancing to the mind,
holding empty pages and
the ever present black pen,
at the approach of the wind
the decrepit gentleman rises,
slow and measured in years,
gathers the nylon woven lawn chair
and dotage memories
returning to within rift siding
of an aged farm house,
here outside the crowed aged rental,
pen lax and memories brief,
thoughts wander to touch
where the thoughts will be
when wrinkles dominate
and time depletes
on a nylon woven chair,
there is a solitary image
stricken with silver streaks
of droplets and age
becoming the ink across the page.