When the spring snows coldly brashly
When abstractions yield concretions
The knocking sounds cease and the door becomes a key
But what makes for a true descending?
And what clears for a pure ascending?
Up never’s the right portion of pips on life’s roguish die
But there’s dripping and shivering?
And there’s clicking and clacking?
Sign 8 billion up tired of seeing the world just in dreams
When wild winds whip the curtains
When quiet lips brace for impact
When life passions are punchlines
With cul-de-sac minds the shepherds trip over their feet!
For it’s better to know than live light like light in a scream
For it’s better to know than live light like light in a scream?
But there it is
In a pickle
In a pinch
In a nutshell
Or in crisp inward times when I couldn’t find a will or a way
Or in noisy times when I couldn’t find a chair, a pen, a word.