I've always enjoyed walking through fields of wildflowers. Letting the stems glide through my fingers and the scents filling my nose with a smell so slight but one that stays with me as I walk further into the meadow.
It's quiet here except for the concert of birds and the chirping of a happy frog on the edge of a hidden pond. My mind races back in time to when this beautiful place became a mecca of rock 'n' roll, and free spirits gathered in huge numbers, all a part of history now but never to be forgotten.
So many decades later, the farm has been reborn, with seemingly endless rows of crops and vast meadows I now walk through. The mud has dried up, and the huge stage is gone, and farmers' great-grandkids search with metal detectors for anything left behind and forgotten over time.
Those days of expression live on with others like me, as cars full of looky-loos stop to take pictures of the farm dressed in tie-died shirts bought at Walmart. One teen ran up to me and asked for a picture. Are you a real hippy? She asked. I removed a love bracelet and handed it to her as she placed it around her wrist and ran back to her group, claiming she had seen the real thing.
Soon, the light of the sun will say goodnight, and the people will go home. As for me, I'll hang around in the meadow and catch fireflies, putting them in mason jars that will give me light to read by as I write a song about longing to live right here in a meadow where my ashes will scatter across fields of wildflowers where birds sing the same soothing songs and fireflies guide me through the darkness.
Mike 2026
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