The early leaves must steal the sun;
the roots must drink the rain.
So call the tune for everyone
to sing the sad refrain:

As prescience in retrospect,
the seasons must unfold.
The Word devolves to dialect;
the new brings forth the old.

As footprints to your snowy boot
your wandering steps precede,
noble events along their route
the churlish moments lead.

So things must be the way they are;
there is no other choice.
No use to wish upon a star.
No need to raise your voice.                                        

Decide instead to make believe
what freedom would provide.
Decide to practice to deceive.
Pretend you can decide.

February 28, 2005

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