Late afternoons

Nearing the end of a long walk
I feel the mellow sun on my tired limbs
my hat covering the eyes
my thoughts roaming with a half-finished
novel

Characters prop up on the roadside
some wrinkled grumpy faces
foulmouthed humans hold out mirrors
concave and convexly shaped
showing me in varied
forms

Just a few paces left to get
a short rest in the cool shade
of that yellow-flowered tree

With butterflies fluttering about clusters
of sweet pea

What could be the purpose of scripting
waned memories amid this April green

Planets would revolve in their own
orbits and small men like us
would fulfill their day's work
and watch their reflections on the pond
quivering in summer breeze