Mist-hung forest - Dark spruce, bright maple -
And the great lake rolling forever to the narrow gray beach
I look west along the red road of the frail sun
Where it hovers between shelf of cloud and spiky trees,
Receding shore;
The world is full of seasons; of anguish, of laughter
And it comes to mind to write you this:
Nothing is sure
Nothing is pure
And no matter who we think we are
Everyone gets his chance to be nothing
Love's supposed to heal, but it breaks my heart to feel
The pain in your voice -
But you know, it's all going somewhere
And I would crush my heart and throw it in the street
If I could pay for your choice
Isn't that what friends are for?
Isn't that what friends are for?
We're the insect life of paradise:
Crawl across leaf or among towering blades of grass
Glimpse only sometimes the amazing breadth of heaven
You're as loved as you were
Before the strangeness swept through
Our bodies, our houses, our streets -
When we could speak without codes
And light swirled around like
Wind-blown petals,
Our feet
I've been scraping little shavings off my ration of light
And I've formed it into a ball, and each time I pack a bit more onto it
I make a bowl of my hands and I scoop it from its secret cache
Under a loose board in the floor
And I blow across it and I send it to you
Against those moments when
The darkness blows under your door
Isn't that what friends are for?
Isn't that what friends are for?
Isn't that what friends are for?
