SPRING AND THE DEVIL'S ARM
Abbreviated by an early autumn night
the summer, once tormented by a torrid sun,
relented to September, as if dying might
give reason to all things the heat and time has done;
The stalks of corn, if touched, explode into a dust,
and water tables sink down to a new found low,
but love always goes on, as love, it always must,
through drought and flood, and shortages that come and go.
There in the field, an old man points his maple cane
as if a prophesy, and something we should know,
always, always, always, there will be too much rain,
or not enough, and only love can ever grow.
There is a blizzard brewing, it's part of the plan,
up in the wastelands north, with tons and tons of snow;
and on a winters' morn, snow will be deeper than
the fences seperating everything we know;
and how the wind will howl, and everything will freeze,
there's little we can do, but hope for early spring,
always, always, always, we fall down to our knees
in love and prayer that times like this always will bring.
Next spring the rains will always fall, perhaps too much,
for some the devil's arm will reach down from the sky,
and twisting life about, there is no gentle touch,
excepting love, and that is all that gets us by.
Always, always, always, love has to always be,
though borrowed from the wind, though sought in pain,
though snatched out of the grip of some cotastrophe,
if not for love, there'd be no welcome summer rain.