folk rock
Yesterday afternoon, sitting in the waning light of our living room while wet chunks of snow, rain, and hail fell from the sky, a sudden desire to hear a particular Simon and Garfunkel song came upon Ross, as it does; a half hour later he had the album in question in his possession, as you do. Listening to it now, I recall many waning evenings spent kneeling of the floor of my parents’ bedroom in my late childhood, playing “Silent Night/7-O’clock News” over and over—trying to catch the low murmur of tragedy in the background of the hymn.
Ross’s song was “Patterns.”
The night sets softly with the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows on the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle, or a child’s uneven scrawl.
Up a narrow flight of stairs in a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed in the early evening gloom,
Impaled on my wall my eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life and the puzzle that is me.
From the moment of my birth to the instant of my death,
There are patterns I must follow just as I must breathe each breath.
Like a rat in a maze the path before me lies,
And the pattern never alters until the rat dies.
And the pattern still remains on the wall where darkness fell,
And it’s fitting that it should, for in darkness I must dwell.
Like the color of my skin, or the day that I grow old,
My life is made of patterns that can scarcely be controlled.
Cheery pair, Paul and Art.