|
On cold November days don't like to stray too far |
|
Or even leave my bed, or put down my guitar |
|
Or leave my master bedroom with it's view |
|
Overlooking the mountains |
|
On dark December days, I think of all my friends |
|
from Washington to Maine, New York to Sweden |
|
And how we've all grown closer with years |
|
Or how we've grown apart |
|
Icicles fall from my roof, burning stove, piles of firewood |
|
Will we meet again in Cold Brook Park |
|
In Cold Brook Park |
|
On January days I walk into the town |
|
Once or twice a day some peace out here I've found |
|
My clothes are wet with rain and mountain mist |
|
Oh how I love the quiet |
|
When February rains I've gone another year |
|
Chasing perfect poems and trying them in your ear |
|
But I'm losing the will to chase them anymore |
|
Across those lonesome oceans |
|
Running deer stops at a fence, sniffing at the flowering iris |
|
Will we meet again in Cold Brook Park |
|
Cold Brook Park |
|
Ghosts inhabit my mountain home |
|
They don't frighten me, I sleep here alone |
|
I shut out my friends, shut off the phone and |
|
Late in the night I hear the echoes of young love |
|
I walk downtown, saw her again |
|
There on the corner, laughing with friends |
|
The cool mountain air pinched her pink skin |
|
And I walked on, aching with memories of young love |
|
Youth walk by hand in hand |
|
And there on the porch sits an old man |
|
His back is tight, his splintered hands |
|
And plain in his eyes, he envies the beauty of young love |
