We Are Asleep With Compasses In Our

After An Age Of Leaves And Feathers Someone Dead Thought Of The Mountain As Money And Cut The Trees That Were Here And The Wind And The Rain At Night. It Is Hard To Say It.

The Story Of Each Stone Leads Back To A Mountain.

Through All Of Youth I Was Looking For You Without Knowing What I Was Looking For Part Memory Part Distance Remaining Mine In The Ways That I Learn To Miss You From What We Cannot Hold The Stars Are Made.

I Offer You What I Have My Poverty

Every Year Without Knowing It I Have Passed The Day When The Last Fires Will Wave To Me