i (i) wrote,

  • Mood:
  • Music:

this guy is incredible

isn’t that what friends are for? – bruce cockburn
from his cd entitled “breakfast in new orleans dinner in timbuktu”

heavy northern autumn sky
mist-hung forest – dark spruce,
bright maple –
and the great lake rolling forever
to the narrow gray beach

i look west along the red road
of the frail sun
to where it hovers between
shelf of cloud and spiky trees,
receding shore;

the world is full of seasons; of
anguish, of laughter,
and it comes to mind to write
you this:

nothing is sure
nothing is pure
and no matter who we think we
everybody gets a chance to be

love’s supposed to heal, but it
breaks my heart to feel
the pain in your voice –
but you know, it’s all going
and I would crush my heart and
throw it in the street
if I could pay for your choice

isn’t that what friends are for?
isn’t that what friends are for?

We’re the insect life of
crawl across leaf or among
towering blades of grass –
glimpse only sometimes the
amazing breadth of heaven

you’re as loved as you were
before the strangeness swept
through our bodies, our
houses, our streets –
when we could speak without
and light sworled around, like
wind blown petals,
our feet

i’ve been scraping
little shavings off my
ration of light
and i formed it into a
ball. And each time i
pack a bit more on to it
i make a bowl of my hands and i
scoop it from its secret cache
under a loose board in the floor
and i blow across it and i send
it to you
against those moments when
the darkness blows under your

isn’t that what friends are for?
isn’t that what friends are for?

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