23500
2
Spring has sprung our wayward past but at a glance
shaped trees through your hair my jubilant one
we are crushed to say a word to a friend
Autumn leaves among us now
we hear the Willow in frenzy cold pitch fever
burning with the reality of comfort
shades of hot scented pew
in the course of our minds
the temperate and the blind
wandering wayward into the sun
a crystal clear message of a song
the Albatross takes south
leave behind the trees
a soft scent of dew
bit off far more then you could chew
Tuesday's gone with the wind
