we decorate it to create a festive air but it is still bare
when snow gathers on the incinerator door the past has moved on
it’s an icy grip that paints the window with frost so delicately
winter settles in blanketing all equally and without conscience
once a barrier the river has been conquered and is forgotten
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
uptown jack 