When were kids,
asthma kept me home from school
frequently in winter-time.
You'd elect sometimes to stay with me, too,
though I suspect your motives weren't so pure
if the options were to stay here or endure
the fury of a frozen earth.
In our pyjamas, we'd sit
with a tape deck to the radio
to capture songs we thought we'd like to know.
And you would put on a show
that I'd try, feebly, to join in on.
I'd flail my arms to nudge my breath along,
and I'd get every word wrong.
And now moonlight hits a white patch of snow
and it anoints the night with a curious glow.
It dances to a rhythm as undefined
as these memories that pass through me tonight.
And time presses hard against your back
as it distinguishes the litter from the precious artifact.
You can't renounce this portion of a northern allowance.
Strange how some things
just get eradicated from your life.
Now days turn cold and I can breathe just fine.
I'm singing, standing outside.
And those songs,
stupid as they were, live on.
They bring you back for a short time,
and then, just like that, you're gone.
And now moonlight hits a white patch of snow
and it anoints the night with a curious glow.
It dances to a rhythm as undefined
as these memories that pass through me tonight.
And time presses hard against your back
as it distinguishes the litter from the precious artifact.
You can't renounce this portion of a northern allowance.