... but it’s time to set me free
It’s late – yes I know but there’s no way it has to be
Too late – so let the fire take our bodies this night
So late – so let the waters take our guilt in the tide
I feel like driving and music go hand-in-hand so well. Jonny’s at the wheel and the ipod is on shuffle. I can’t remember where we’re going, or if we were just out on an adventure. The streets of Denver are quiet and there’s no night-time traffic to interfere. The pauses we make at stoplights give a nice rhythm to our journey; a languorous pause in between smooth movement.
The build of this song is so great, Freddy and Brian’s voices moving together. Jonny and I sing as loud as we can. It’s one of those moments that comes to mind.
...and it will mind me
A place where I can go when I am lost, and there I’ll find me.
I have lived alone for most of my life, which suits me well. Though I exist in a comfortable cohabitation situation, I often find myself enjoying the moments when I have the house to myself.
When it is early, and warm enough to have the windows open in the late spring, I delight in spending quiet hours in my house, writing and doing quiet things. These hours are golden. When I look around my house, I think that I live in luxury, even if there are dishes to be done, things to be worked on, places to go.
In my own home, I can be the Girl I mean to be.
the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s teacup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and – somehow –