It was on the hillside,
Our farmhouse was just below,
My mom and dad and me,
Every summer berry picking would go.
I ate some berries as I picked,
The thorns sometimes pricked my skin,
But berry picking was a lot of fun,
I sure wish I could go again.
My little dog is gone,
My mother and father too,
But I am still here,
Wondering what I should do.
I don't feel like playing on the hill,
Or wading in the stream,
Maybe I will wake up soon,
And find this growing old was just a dream.
It is not easy to let go,
Of loved ones who are gone now,
Of the happy memories of childhood.
But one has to go on somehow.
As the country road I drive,
The farm houses take me back again,
And the roadside flowers and trees,
Remind me of what once had been.
My time is running out,
But you will always roll on,
Oh, mighty Mississippi!
You will never be gone.
Well, I am growing old,
And sometimes I'm feeling sad,
But you keep right on flowing,
And for that I am glad.
Infinite Whirls
Intangible shapes formed in thought,
By the sheathed ganglia wrought,
Once they were of life's panorama,
Now they enfold a dream's misty drama.
Am I now here or was I there?
It seems now I am almost everywhere,
The mind is not mine anymore,
I am not contained there like before.
For now my thoughts are infinitely whirled,
colors, patterns, shapes vividly unfurled,
As I rapidly travel over valley and peak,
On a journey of which I cannot speak.
