It is very quiet here--so still
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I don't live here--I live down the hill
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On this winter's afternoon
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The distant sun--it slowly swings the room around
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This room hangs on a golden chain
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Suspended
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Frozen
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Frozen in time since you went away
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Walking through your rooms I though your things
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Fitting--these aren't fingers these are wings
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It says April on your calendar
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It's winter now--I wonder where you are
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I hope it's warm and sunny--or cold and windy
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As long as you're fine
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Your house is as tumble-down as mine
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Crumpled papers everywhere like mine
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This one says "I'll write no more"
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That one says "don't lock the door"
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Writers are a funny breed
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I should know
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You said someday when we're pure and high
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We won't need to capture and describe
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The things we see or don't see
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We'll let things be
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Let things be
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That's when you'd leave
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And that is why I had to come today
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My mad scribbling crumpled, crippled, fey
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Tossing words from ledges that erode
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From ledges--I am not a goat
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I am not a piece of chalk
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I just want to do it right like you
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And now I stand here in your house
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Everything's so still
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I wonder if I'll write again
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Or let things be
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Writers are a funny breed
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-----------------
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Writers Are A Funny Breed
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Jane Siberry |