Carousel

Days pass by

like carousel horses

red and gold and green.

Sit on the horse with the silver mane

and ride—up and down, round and round

no two cycles quite the same.

It’s not the years that change.

Ravens come and go,

mountains gather snow.

Riders come on,

others get off

as we spin round the sun like a carousel

but it’s never quite the same.

We’re never quite the same.

It’s not the years that change.