| On cold November days don’t like to stray too far
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| Or even leave my bed, or put down my guitar
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| Or leave my master bedroom with it’s view
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| Overlooking the mountains
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| On dark December days, I think of all my friends
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| From Washington to Maine, New York to Sweden
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| And how we’ve all grown closer with years
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| Or how we’ve grown apart
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| Icicles fall from my roof, burning stove, piles of firewood
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| Will we meet again in Cold Brook Park
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| In Cold Brook Park
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| On January days I walk into the town
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| Once or twice a day some peace out here I’ve found
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| My clothes are wet with rain and mountain mist
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| Oh how I love the quiet
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| When February rains I’ve gone another year
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| Chasing perfect poems and trying them in your ear
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| But I’m losing the will to chase them anymore
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| Across those lonesome oceans
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| Running deer stops at a fence, sniffing at the flowering iris
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| Will we meet again in Cold Brook Park
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| Cold Brook Park
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| Ghosts inhabit my mountain home
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| They don’t frighten me, I sleep here alone
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| I shut out my friends, shut off the phone and
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| Late in the night I hear the echoes of young love
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| I walk downtown, saw her again
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| There on the corner, laughing with friends
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| The cool mountain air pinched her pink skin
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| And I walked on, aching with memories of young love
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| Youth walk by hand in hand
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| And there on the porch sits an old man
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| His back is tight, his splintered hands
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| And plain in his eyes, he envies the beauty of young love |