The fountain had a slow stream that was running free,
by Johanna Fields
water sparkled as it flowed into the palm of the hand.
A father of time, sat reading an almanac at the table,
as the hour glass slowly dropped grains of white sand.
The old porch swing, swung back and forth in the breeze,
pushing care free in the spring air, in one of the four winds.
The sign was an article of faith that expresses God’s work,
the art was a symbol of the past, reflecting now and then.
In the distance was a whisper, then a whistle of a loud
sound of the freight train, running on the train tracks.
Lost in his thoughts, running in the fields, little by little,
losing his location, leaving behind a reality of his facts.
Reverberating through the hollow and the river bend,
what direction the sound may go, only nature will hear.
The heart seems to be running back to the country and
was set free, whose name it was calling, seemed so near.