The Swaying of Trees

Doodling patterns with my stiff hand

Behind my back I hear ravens squawking

Pouring thin crushed glass

Into a shaker of salt

And adjusting the picture frames

On my wall

Bringing back feelings of wisdom and peace

When staring through the window at the swaying of trees

With a shaker full of quicksand

I'm seasoning all my blandest drawings

If I don't leave the house

I might need breathing holes

To fan the fire and the flames

Before I choke

Bringing back feelings of wisdom and peace

When staring through the window at the swaying of trees

Covering songs from unknown French bands

On my guitar while the rain is falling

Unfolding ancient maps

Places that I wanted to know

Only memories remain

From a long sometime ago