A place I've been to before
and one I must go again

the Fairfield Connecticut
of my youth in dreams

the scene

plate glass window
Blinn's Toystore

framed in red
Christmas time

a model train
traveling through tunnels
toward Christmas lights
up hills and down again

to the station
pick up cargo and off it goes

again

cheerful and tireless
in its work

naive simplistic
a dreamer

maybe all

but all I've got

I will survive

Whit Howland© 2019

Quiet are the fields
with ghosts
from pennants past
the aces
and cutters
set idly away
from the maple
spread fall
soft sounds
of Sunday
(chilling on the boneyard)
telling tales of
validated stars
and wheel house legends
the rally cap sluggers
with mahogany eyes

Mustard colors
in floating mists
give a bite
to sublime skies
scattered walkers
trip to the hole
their spit buckets
and spigots
pressed into
pure life form
bikers and loners
and curious coffee goers
mill about the horn
whispering numbers
from an old
Keelman heaving

Alley lookers
and Mendoza lines
screachers, bleachers
from years gone by
dancing fingers
and cracks at the bat
moonshots
(from the big time Timmy Jim)
the 9th inning gunner
with sinker
and slider
and imposing
brush back *****
the game day citizen
and dugout warrior
who lit it up
in Rockwell fame