| On a gravel back-road, down deep in the Fall
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| So long ago, yet how well I recall
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| My Grandfather’s green truck with the rusted-out rims
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| And me on the seat, between my Mamma and him
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| How we rattled along, until the old Ford, it stalled
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| And Momma said «Jump on out, pick you a big cotton ball»
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| An Autumn leaf scraped its way across the road
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| We were headed back home
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| See the proud, thrusting, curve of the robin’s red breast
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| Out gathering worms to return to her nest
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| The lavender haze at the first light of dawn
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| A woman’s clear voice lilting in song
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| And all the fine words our poets have said
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| The sparkling dew upon the spider’s silk web!
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| Does one matter more? |
| Does one matter less?
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| Who of us can say?
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| The tents are rolled up, the Revival’s left town
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| All that remains is the fine sawdust ground
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| Still wet from the tears that fell from the eyes
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| Of folks too far down to hang back in pride
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| And I am here, too, like I always was:
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| Deep in the pain, strong in the love
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| Still singing my prayer to Heaven above
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| Heartfelt and true
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| Once you were the dawn, the dusk, and the light
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| Without the dream of holding you tight
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| My days turned to black, I could hardly take breath
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| I stumbled my way thru a fate worse than death
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| But like the Phoenix that rose right out of the fire
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| I came back too, from a bed of desire
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| And shook from my wings the ash from the pyre
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| And headed back home |