In the wink of an eye, my soul is turning
They start in the seconds between wakefulness and sleep. In the periphery of our dreams. With the gentleness of leaves barely rustling. Increasing slowly to
palm fronds swaying on a tropical beach. Intensifying to gale warnings. Roaring through the streets and avenues of your mind. The crevasses of your mind. Picking up the detritus of past, present and future memories.
In your hand, in your hand
We are imperfect beings. Some deeply flawed. We have memories of great things we have done. Things that have brought us shame. Words and deeds that have brought laughter and pleasure. Words and deeds that have caused tears. And pain. The night winds (some call them your angels ) pick them
up and deposit them in our consciousness. Randomly.
Are you going away with no word of farewell
Some memories are from childhood. And maybe before. Some from many yesterdays ago. Some from yesterdays of tomorrow. The winds are merciless. Uncaring of the hurt or happiness they may bring. Making us face the hurt we caused. The pain inflicted. The laughter given. Many words and deeds wished undone. If only we could.
Will there be not a trace left behind
Memories fade. They do not disappear. Ever. If it happened, the memory is forever lurking. Waiting for the wind to pick it up and roar through the canyons. Leaving traces. If the us is now a you, will it pick up the many joys of being together, or, the cruel words said from frustration, exhaustion or fear ? Faces from yesterdays or eons past appear briefly. Then flicker and fade.
I could have loved you better, didn’t mean to be unkind
The night wind is random. Blowing through time. Scattering bits and pieces to the surface of your mind. It watches to see if you understand it’s message. Did you feel happiness. Anger. Pain. The winds will return. Again and again. You can be sure of that. Sometimes the message is plain. Sometimes the interpretation is up to you. Or your angels.
You know that was the last thing on my mind
Author’s note. At the time of this writing, it has been eighteen months and about fifty pieces since I started this process. I have tried to entertain you. To hopefully touch your funnybone. Your thinker. Your heart. Maybe even your soul. Thanks for your encouragement. Your patience. This piece is for everyone we have loved and lost. Like all my work, it was written just for you!
By Fred Prout
Lyrics by Tom Paxton