Don't worry the weather, my wayward woman,
for the seas are much calmer this close to the beach.
I don't know where you are, or where you are going,
but roses will greet you upon your arrival.

I've read all your postcards from places you've travelled;
Penned with slang you pick up in the cities you stay.
I've packed up and took to a road of my own
-- just figured I'd write you to tell you I'm safe.

My sights have consisted of stars that we've counted;
Dust that bustles so freely beneath me;
Castaway houses with rooms full of boxes;
And people like you, who find comfort in change.

But I wouldn't mind a box we could live in --
different from these we've decided to leave.
But the past of a road paves the path that goes,
and I'm starting to see that a box is a dream.

So I'll dream a dream just the way you would dream it
-- of luggage and boxes of things you'll be keeping --
to always remind you of what we have chosen;
And that to be living, means constantly going.