Alone at a window she barely knows
In a chair that does not fit her fanny
A view of a yard that is not her own
Askew at an angle through tears
Little tornadoes of snow climb up yon’ hill
Frozen drifts chill the old heart of granny
First night in the home, feels like jail

On the other hand, she’s keen to let something go
What could it be, it’s been nagging for a long time now
Finally she can sigh like an old flat tire coming to the end of its ride
Now there is less of everything
All gone in this forlorn forecourt of a motel
Turned into an old folk’s home out on the highway
All grown up and gone away
It’s only to stay now, quiet, and let it all pass out of existence
Whatever will come, come now