It's the Widow now that owns that angry plow,
|
The spartan Mule and The Crippled Cow
|
The fallow field that will yield no more,
|
As the fox lay sleeping beneath her kitchen floor
|
|
The stream can't contain such the withering rain,
|
And from the pasture the fence it is leaning away
|
The clouds crack and growl
|
Like some great cat on the prowl
|
Crying out, "I am, I am" over and over again
|
|
The days grow short
|
As the nights grow long
|
The kettle sings its tortured song
|
As many petalled kiss I place upon her brow,
|
Oh, my lady, Lady I am loving you now
|
|
The winter birds have come back again,
|
Here the sprightly Chickadee
|
Gone now is the Willow Wren
|
In passing greet each other as if old, old friends
|
And to the voiceless trees
|
It is their own they will lend
|
|
The days grow short
|
As the nights grow long
|
The kettle sings its tortured song
|
As many petalled kiss I place upon her brow,
|
Oh, my lady, Lady I am loving you now
|
|
And though all these things will change,
|
The memories will remain
|
As green to gold, and gold to brown
|
The leaves will fall to feed the ground
|
And in their falling, make no sound
|
|
Oh my lady,
|
Lady I am loving you now
|
|
I've gathered all my money and I'm goin' to town,
|
To buy my lady a long and flowing gown
|
'Cause come tomorrow morning
|
We're off to the county fair
|
I'll find a yellow flower
|
And I will lace it in her hair
|
|
-----------------
|
Winter Birds
|
Ray Lamontagne |