House Song

by Tylan Greenstein / Nate Borofsky

I don't hear wind up in the trees
Nothing stirs those ancient leaves
And I don't know what begins it, the growing of the vines
The deep descending patterns of the wrinkling of time
Like that little plastic flowerpot still sitting on the stairs
Holding a dead bougainvillea from last year's burst of repairs
And all of the fences we built then are still holding in the dogs
Of our love, of our love, of our love

Every old place, every old time
I thought I knew my haunted mind
Thought I picked through every longing a million years ago
At night I dream I'm flying down an endless open road
But our old Toyota is still frozen in the mud
How I begged you to leave it on the street during the flood
And how it sank further in the more we graveled and dug
Our love, our love, our love

Outside it's warm, the first of spring
The opening of everything
And this is what we wanted, a place to settle down
But nothing can prepare you for the gravity of ground
And our old foundation is so settled in its way
I've got less baby and less to say
And all the paint and rearranging never seems to stir the dust
Of our love, of our love, of our love

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