Voice

If Dylan didn't want to be the voice of his generation,

Why should I lend my voice

To mine?

Spectrums change

With every point of view,

And there is none to which I belong.

So I choose to align myself with things more permanent:

Like the changing of a season,

And the reliability of a yellow leaf,

Laid in the pond by the wind.

Bobbing there, ripple after ripple,

Year after year.

Or with the faith of the old man next to me,

Casting his line and pulling it in again.

He waits for bluegill

That never come.