A Golden Age Love Story

With a brilliant age about her, you could never know. She was so occupied with her scoop and her trowel as I happened upon her discreetly working alone. She was making limited walkways through her garden, putting blocks in slick, clean fringes, her fantasizing floating among the thistles and rose buds.

Planting, sustaining - sowing, weeding, her blooms light up everybody with her affection in the daylight of the sweltering, dry, pooch long stretches of summer. Her pathways driving her where they may... a brilliant age offers decisions that are hers alone.

A squirrel hurries down the storage compartment of the tree, inquisitive, watching me accumulate blooms for my table and a couple for my companion waiting be recollected with satisfaction and excellence. She is startled by a fastener wind lounging in the sun; it's shocked by her essence as well, crawling without end, it isn't any longer.

A pathway tenderly breezes around her home, windows shining in the daylight, the beams of which enter my heart. My affection for her everything these