Where the trees arch over the road way
And meet, just above the dusty street
The road which never was called upon to be modern
As the whirling winds and tempered dust stares back at me
This is where you will find my heart
At least for one week out of every summer
Lost among the wild things, and memories
Although I will never be as tall as such trees
I will try and grow, for more than me
The former me