everyone else is buried for the season, but one still roams free
the slate is wiped clean it’s a new life, including relearning to walk
straight as an arrow drawn to create order, lines are not natural
as the garden sleeps one non-conformist awakes to make a last stand
the changing seasons are a constant; also the only change we get
it’s a path well worn where we get lost in our thoughts not seeing what’s here
what we see today is not an old yesterday it is something new
a tiny flicker won’t cast much light, but can be seen a great distance
the blue sky dances across the black lake surface catch me if you can
we all have a space dedicated for growing even if we’re lost
uptown jack 