It's Late

It's late, the lights are out save one;
its streams uncover my thoughts,
and  I know I should be sleeping
but memories stir like fine mist.

In foggy past, school bells ring
calling the curious to their door
but I languish beside a rushing stream
where currents play and sing.

My neighbor throws his book away
as soon as school lets out,
but somewhere in the distance
he hears the echoes of learning.

I lay on the earth midst sun flowers
closing my eyes while sipping beauty
and the sun gently kisses my face
reminding me, I'm never alone.

Embracing warmth upon my face
while cool breezes caress my hair,
I desire a return to childhood days
when the world was right side up.

When the moon comes out of hiding
I am two dozen miles down the road,
but it seems like a short distance
from my youth to the present time.

 It's quiet in this meadow of mine
as I turn back for one last look
hearing nature sigh in whispers
singing songs I've long forgotten.

It's late, all lights are out save one;
its streams cover over my thoughts,
painting meadows and sunflowers
amidst noise of rolling thunder.