Heavy northern autumn sky   mist on forest   dark spruce, bright maple   and the great lake rolling forever    to the narrow gray beach      I look west along the red road of the frail sun   to where it hovers between shelf of cloud   and spiky trees, receding shore      The world is full of seasons   of anguish, of laughter   and it comes to mind to write you this      Nothing is sure   nothing is pure   and no matter who we think we are   everyone gets his chance to be   nothing      Love's supposed to heal    but it breaks my heart   to feel the pain in your voice   but you know   it's all going somewhere   and I would crush my heart   and throw it in the street   if I could pay for your choice      Isn't that what friends are for?   Isn't that what friends are for?      We're the insect life of paradise   crawl across leaf or among   towering blades of grass   glimpse only sometimes the amazing   breadth of heaven      You're as loved as you were   before the strangeness swept through   our bodies, our houses, our streets   when we could speak without codes   and light swirled around like   wind-blown petals at our feet      I've been scraping little shavings   off my ration of light   and I've formed it into a ball   and each time I pack a bit more onto it   and I make a bowl of my hands and   I scoop it from its secret cache   under a loose board in the floor   and I blow across it and I send it to you   against those moments when the darkness   blows under your door      Isn't that what friends are for?   Isn't that what friends are for?   Isn't that what friends are for?