In the twilight of the day
sits a dusty old soul
bent over
the years have taken their toll
his bony fingers, tossing pebbles
watch them sink, to the bottom
of the gentile flowing stream
counting backwards
in hopes to recapture his youth
time is a constant, life has an ending
and this pile of pebbles, that dam the stream
perhaps it will delay the end
if only for one more day