The rumble of the railcars on East Street, the rattle of the wagons on Market, the banter and chatter inside the city keeps a man from thinking beyond the busyness of the morning, so by dayend, I search for solace down the moss tinged cobblestone of Court Street toward the Carroll creek once more, to hear the calming rush and roll of water, to sit upon a cedar bench.
My old friend, the cedar bench; the two of us, grayed with age, waiting for the moon to rise. We sit silent, as audience to the sunset songs of cricket, frog, and creek; I collect my thoughts, which are always of you.
Here, by the water, under the black walnut, with the scent of sassafras, I buy brief passage to another time, a long ago September, when you would simply seduce every sense I possess.
~ Michael Douglas Jones
Frederick in Spires