“It’s been a long time” says Sam reaching to the depths of his soul, My heart whispers to my body that it will never grow old, I imagine the Taiga in winter, and a trapper’s worn bowl. Waiting for change as I Cooke in the kitchen. Waiting for more as I lay in the den. A change is gonna come as long as I’m listening, ready to bring page to pen. What then? Spiraling stained glass, and rice over fresh powder, or cold nosed chocolates in desolation? We seek our selves in the journey, and our past in the now. Our dreams are set in the future, and our ideals set in the vow. Our messages reflect the inner workings, and our remarks out of the heart’s overflow. Each of us waiting for more hours of light than dark, in order that we may start to noticeably grow. Some trees have life. Some have smooth barkless patches from brown leather belts preparing for weak zip lines in reenactment of James Bond scenes. Some trees sit in window sills waiting for the south facing shine. Some trees bear the carvings of hearts, two sets of initials, and two simple words: be mine. Some say I’m yours. Some say I’m fine. All is not lost, but truth lies in more than wine.