I Had A Rusty Spade

"I wrote a little song for you with a melody I'd borrowed put to
words that didn't rhyme to repeat what you already knew,
as the stones thrown at your window tapped in syncopation.

You kept a distance out of fear you'd break,
but what good's a single windchime hanging quiet all alone?
The music our collisions would make
is the sound that turns the road that leads us back home into home.

I had a rusty spade, but I'm not the fighting sort.

So spare me your goodbyes, your waving-handkerchief goodbyes.
Given my tendency to err so on the sentimental side,
I will spare you my goodbyes.
The truth belongs to God. The mistakes were mine."