The fleating moment

Driving down a long and winding country road, music blaring and mind at ease, no cars in sight.

Wooden fences halfway fallen down; with chipping paint.

Wild flowers growing in fields along the roadside.

Long abandoned farms with their crumbling brick red barns and rusty tin roofs sitting in the distance.

Tragic mysteries of former occupants. The past still lives if only for a moment.

A grey haired women selling lace and old license plates says “they ┬ánever made ’em in ’52.”

I buy in pairs.

A man refuses, arms crossed, wishing I would leave.

What makes him stay?

A piccolo among broken instruments, sad, used for a moment then tossed aside.

Keys holding one set of finger prints are lost among the clutter.

Sad, so sad.

I dispair.

I’m to ‘young’; name prices so high I leave.

I drive; beyond the wild flowers, fences, and farms of long ago, singing songs in tones so low I hardly know.

I’m letting go…

“Freedom rings!” Shouts from the pulpit.

To everyone willing to hear.

The voice is lost among the noise;

Im coming home to the ones I hold most dear.