On that coldest day in December we followed
our breath to the field. The winter wheat
stood against the wind.
There among the pine trees, where green
holds fast, we laid our dreams to rest,
let them turn the blue of perfect ice.
The whole expanse of sky succumbed
to sorrow and questions.
our breath to the field. The winter wheat
stood against the wind.
There among the pine trees, where green
holds fast, we laid our dreams to rest,
let them turn the blue of perfect ice.
The whole expanse of sky succumbed
to sorrow and questions.