"A time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot." Ecclessiastes 3:2
I got soul but I’m not a soldier. A break from the hustle arrives right on time. It's time to sleep.
A peaceful train through the barren snow covered forest evokes childhood memoreis of John Winchell’s farm pastures and the tireless walks over the barbed wire fence to a secluded catfish pond. Evenings ending in a hot bath, my skinny digits so cold they burned in thawing. The make believe that can come only from the vibrancy of youth becomes a faint memory and the tocking of the tracks sends me to slumber.
Wake me in the white covered Berkshire Hills.
Where does the time go?
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