When the wild grass grows cold
And the branches thin, I carry with
Me a sweater and warm cup of tea.
As the leaves drift into a second wind
And another birdsong passes by, I begin
To whistle through the fog and steam.
While the frost traces mossy stone,
My wired limbs unfold into the morning air.
After the silence breaks on cobbled stone,
My rugged lungs breathe in the mist below
The lamp passing by those corner streets.
During the autumn harvest and early
Moon rising, there's an echo in the hollow.
A spellcaster whistling through the jaded leaves,
Cherry branches shrouded within your moonlit gaze.
I've since awakened then, in the morning sun.