Wild Flowers In A Mason Jar (The Farm)
January, back in ’55, we rode a Greyhound bus through the Georgia midnight.
Grandpa was sleeping and the winter sky was clear.
We hit a bump and his head jerked back a little and he mumbled something,
he woke up smiling, but his eyes were bright with tears.
He said, “I dreamed I was back on the farm,
20 years have passed, boy, the memory still warms me. Wildflowers in a mason jar”
He told me those old stories ’bout that one-room cabin in Kentucky.
The smell of the rain and the warm earth in his hands.
He slowly turned and stared outside, his face was mirrored in the window,
and his reflection flew across the moonlit land.
And he dreamed he was back on the farm.
Tilts his head and listens to the early sound of morning, wildflowers in a mason jar.
An old man and an eight-year-old boy rolling down that midnight highway,
Kentucky memories from a winter Georgia night.
I started drifting off and Grandpa tucked his coat around me,
I think I tried to smile as I slowly closed my eyes.
And I dreamed I was with him on the farm.
Grandpa, I can hear the evening wind out in the corn, wildflowers in a mason jar,
wildflowers in a mason jar, wildflowers in a mason jar, and the bus rolled through the night.
(written by Linde)