The Tinkling Sounds of the Past
When the wind blows,
glass falls from the broken windows.
You can hear it tinkling on the tarmac.
Every day, becoming more of a ruin.
Weather gets in. Wind gets in.
Animals wander the empty spaces
in search of shelter and food.
You sit in a chair, sun on your cheeks,
facing away from the ruins,
your eyes taking in the broad field of wildflowers
that was once a race track.
They are silent, the flowers, bight and dancing,
yellow and violet wands of life perpetual,
dancing to the music of broken glass.
About this poem
About the abandoned racetrack an hour or so South of me. About putting the broken parts of the past behind and looking at what might be ahead. The broken parts are both behind us, but at times, still noisy.
Dancing with the flowers,