By the Fire's Light

 



It’s hard to see through sad puppy eyes,
I’ve heard nostalgia is blind,
so, we’re one in the same,

I guess we both see our pre-school walls,
feel the cold bosom of evening, 
lick the seltzer vapors,

trade our thoughts on love, what it really means;
sometimes it’s unrequited,
naïve, blind or led on.

Then, we grow through stories of folk songs
told by mandolins again,
again by fire's light.