The fiddler’s in his flower field,
Familiar, fond, and fine;
He squints into the weighty wind,
And the hours pass him by.
Posies play and prance,
And roses run awry,
And the fiddler’s in his flower field,
To face the false, forsaken sky.
The fiddler plays his fiddle,
Dreams of dancers, crowds, and wine;
But the fiddler’s in his flower field,
Spring soul of summertime.
In the fiddler’s flower field,
Is a place of bars and vines,
A gate, a door of something more
But beyond the lea, malign.
Forever here, the fiddler’s fear,
In whispers of the oak and pine;
So when the fiddler nears egress,
The asters wait; he’ll return in time.
