We’re the roamers and the seekers, the practical romancers who swear to God there’s no such thing as too much wonder. We’re the stayers and the goers, the ramblin’-rosers conceived in the hot’n’heavy between homesteaders and gypsies. (So you see why we insist there be hearths and dancing. Its in our blood.) We’re the hopers and the whistlers, we’re the laughers and the weepers, we’re the humdingers of the music and the motion and the touch of madness needed to be a man or a woman for all seasons. We’re the finger-crossers, praying to be remembered only for our rhetoric of gratitude.
Yes, we’re the hanger-oners to this oscillating
life of ours, ’cause breaking up is hard to do.