I was walking in a forest when I found a book of prose poems by Charles Baudelaire floating in a calm creek. I knelt into the shallow water and grabbed the book. It was signed by Baudelaire himself, or, just as likely, a forged copy. Nevertheless, I placed the book onto a patch of soft grass beneath the summer sun. It dried with the light breeze like a surfer resting in the sand after an early morning session.
After an hour, I picked up the book and began to read. I read for about three hours. Then, the moon came up like a wish. I fell asleep in the field, by the creek, with the book on my chest. The next morning when the sun woke me up, the book was gone. I was confused for a moment, until I saw the book floating back in the creek again. I dug it out, once more, and dried it off, again. I continued reading, by the creek. The French words, poems, and soft pages were like fresh flowers to me. Time became irrelevant.