You lean against the frozen wall
Where Malus pumila stand tall
Your chrome is chipped and turning grey
A relic of a warmer day
Silver spoke glow in the white
Catching the last of the light
Rolling through orchards of glass
Waiting for winter to pass
The loam is hard and locked in sleep
The dormant roots are buried deep
Your rubber tires are cracked and thin
Where the midnight frosts begin
You mirror every flake of snow
A pale and steady rhythmic glow
The graphite frame is cold to touch
You hold the evening far too much
Silver spoke glow in the white
Catching the last of the light
Rolling through orchards of glass
Waiting for winter to pass
The soil is black and smelling sweet
A dormant world beneath your seat
The B3 organ hums a low tune
Under a heavy winter moon
You reflect the purple evening sky
As the heavy winter birds fly by
A vintage ghost in a white field
Until the April blossoms yield
Silver spoke glow in the white
Catching the last of the light
Rolling through orchards of glass
Waiting for winter to pass
Silver spokes in the cold
Silver spokes in the gold
