Field Of Lily's

Poem 1 - Wilting

A field lies between I, and the river.
     The river remains still.
Calm and awaiting the next fisherman or young child who cares to disturb such serenity.
     The river waits not yet longer before being interrupted however.
     The petals off the lilies that belong to this field loft onto the surface of the water, slowly covering each crevice with carefully cautioned placement.
     I find myself sitting by the shore, breathing shallow as to blend in with the romantic sights and sounds.
     The hand I place apon the shoulder of my own, replaces the hand placed against the age of old.
     Myself and I decide on the paths that haven't been taken by those before nor after who I become.
     The field in which this path lie transform the end into another.
     The Lilies that flutter and flow about the wind, fragile as a rotting trunk, shy away from those who desire them most.
     I reach for a lilie with the gentle reminder of something sweet.
     The lilie wilts into dust, only few grains remain constrained by the grip and grind.
     I ponder, what activities could lilie and I share had the lilie remained intacted.
     A fair?, A picnic?, A chilly starry night?
     Though I'll never know, I certainly hope that which I could imagine never comes close to reality.
     That reality for which a seek, may never be mine.
    Though I hope whomever lives my dream was dreaming about them too.