As I Wind Down The Pines

As I wind down the pines
it’s the lines on your face
playing on your face.

Without thinking so much
as abandoning thought
I went through open country
over water meadow streams
lakes and wires and roosts in reeds
to a nest in the hole of
this dead
tree.

To play without stopping or pause
not for silence not for applause
not without thinking
and thinking’s abandoning thought.

As I wind down the pines
it’s the lines on your face
playing on your face.

Posted in The Tragically Hip and tagged , , , , .

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