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I lay flat on the grass, face to the sky,

with arms stretched out lazily at my sides.

Eyes closed, I breathe a honeysuckle breeze

while sun drips down from climbed sycamore trees.

Familiar branches stage fluttering leaves

in rhythmic folkdances, to welcome me.

Nearby, the swingset’s squeaky serenade

recounts tales of my childhood charades.

I smile, content to let my thoughts escape

to days dearly wrapped in memory’s drape.

I’m comforted by how much stays the same,

on the rustic grounds of this rural lane.