Jane Siberry Follow

It is very quiet here, so still
I don't live here, I live down the hill on this winter's afternoon
The distant sun, it slowly swings the room around
This room hangs on a golden chain suspended, frozen
Frozen in time since you went away

Walking through your rooms, I thought your things fitting
These aren't fingers these are wings
It says April on your calendar
It's winter now, I wonder where you are
I hope it's warm and sunny or cold and windy
As long as you're fine

Your house is as tumble-down as mine
Crumpled papers everywhere like mine
This one says, "I'll write no more"
That one says, "Don't lock the door"
Writers are a funny breed I should know

You said someday when we're pure and high
We won't need to capture and describe
The things we see or don't see
We'll let things be
Let things be that's when you'd leave

And that is why I had to come today
My mad scribbling crumpled, crippled, fey
Tossing words from ledges that erode
From ledges I am not a goat
I am not a piece of chalk, I just want to do it right like you

And now I stand here in your house
Every thing's so still
I wonder if I'll write again or let things be
Writers are a funny breed