In between days
The wind's changed. Oh the wind has changed! Oh shout from craggy mountains and valleys deep in cool-air stupor. How you twisted the yellow branches and out grew your green croppings of short lived leaves. The tracked ground's overrun and ruddy on yellow flowers, purple flowers, red flowers. Its the splatter of seasons that lifts my hips and the helium that rides through my bloodstream into a muddy blooded spring.
Fickle winds at night play hopscotch through my bedroom window. Their frowns echo over clouds and descend angrily, heavily, across my tin-roof town. Perhaps if you weren't in such transition, weren't straddling an orchard of new grown buds, we wouldn't have to fight. Remember the quiet days, the snow-silent days, the sticky-popsickle summer days. Season changes you bring your gifts forward but trip on the alter.
Fickle winds at night play hopscotch through my bedroom window. Their frowns echo over clouds and descend angrily, heavily, across my tin-roof town. Perhaps if you weren't in such transition, weren't straddling an orchard of new grown buds, we wouldn't have to fight. Remember the quiet days, the snow-silent days, the sticky-popsickle summer days. Season changes you bring your gifts forward but trip on the alter.