by Dean Friedman
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Autumn seems awful lonely here whenever we think of you.
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Last night the sky turned purple and we wanted to share the view.
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Leaves on the trees are turning and the woods are all ablaze
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They smell of timber burning in the fireplace.
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Sunday we woke up early and we drove out to Tice's Farms,
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Gorging ourselves on all the cider and doughnuts we could fit under both our arms.
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Picking out penny candy in the country store,
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Till we collapsed on the porch with our bellies sore.
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So what's it like to be on your own, a roaming vagabond, away from home,
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in search of some forgotten door?
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Is it half as good as it sounds? Tell me, have you really found
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the peace and calm we've all been looking for?
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Freckles still misses you. She always sleeps on the floor in your room.
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Ruth says she smells, but you know it's just her very unique perfume.
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The tree in the back bore apples but they're green and full of worms.
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Guess we'll sit tight and wait until the cider turns.
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Everyone sends their love; they still don't really believe you're gone.
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Everyone's jealous of this crazy odyssey that you're on.
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Hoping this finds you happy and healthy and sane.
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I pray that your strength will ease you through the growing pains.
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So what's it like to be on your own, a roaming vagabond, away from home,
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in search of some forgotten door?
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Is it half as good as it sounds? Tell me, have you really found
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the peace and calm we've all been looking for?
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The Letter
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| Dean Friedman |
