I don't hurry anymore, not racing
I amble when I ramble, watch my pacing.

At my leisure, cool and slow
I watch the budlings burst and grow,
putting on their April show.

I see November try to hide
his hurt old heart, but it's inside
the chill.
And if you let him show you
then he will.

Ramble, amble, wander, wonder
all about the leaves, and thunder;
and the seasons and the reasons,
and the wherefores and the whys.

And all the sayings of the wise,
...and wanderlust, the way it cries.