Wyoming Citrus Company

the frost is chasing all the swallows from the branches of the citrus trees
and the sun is shaking itself loose from the cattail threads and winter wheat,
colonizing the snow inside the lonely orchard aisles and coughing gravel streets
while my citrus grove laments the wyoming soil beneath its feet

the rocks and the lizards are all speaking
in a language with which my ears can't seem to move
just because i've got nothing left to prove
doesn't mean i've got nothing left to do

patterns are pasted on the walls and stack ten high inside our rugaed brains
though their architecture constructs no truth that i can humbly claim
they mold most elegant pots and jars and bowls out of the finest clay
where i can bootleg excuses from all the fast fermenting blame

i've excused myself from my reflection
and any consequence for this body i abuse
but just because i've got nothing left to prove
does't mean i've got nothing left to do

the setting sun surrounds me like a softly swelling symphony
the stars are shedding their black robes, naked punctuation amongst infinity
the've got no fevered dreams to sweat or destination to dictate their shape

all paths will lead me nowhere
and there's no purpose to glorify my moves
but just because i've got nothing left to prove
doesn't mean i've got nothing left to do.