It
keeps changing.
I see towers where there were trees,
going.
All the stillness,
the solitude,
Georgia.
Sundays
disappearing
all the time.
When things were beautiful.
All things are beautiful,
Mother.
All trees, all towers beautiful.
That tower beautiful,
Mother, see a
perfect tree.
Pretty isn't beautiful,
Mother.
Pretty is what changes.
What the eye arranges
is what is beautiful.
I'm changing, you're changing.
I'll draw us
now before we fade.
Mother,
you watch while I revise the world.
As we sit here,
quick draw it all,
Georgian.
Sundays
disappearing as we look.
Look,
look.
You make it beautiful.
Oh, Georgie,
how I long for the old view.
