Slipping Through My Fist

I have drifted down a ways along the shoreline,
I just watched these ropes give way
where they were tied.
I could have reached out quick when the ropes first slipped, if I had tried,
but I was wondering
where the wind was trying to take me
overnight, if I never did resist, and
what strange breezes make a sailor want to
let it come to this,
with lines untied, slipping through my fist.
It is downhill all the way to the ocean,
so of course the river always wants to flow.
The river's been here longer,
it's older and stronger and knows where to go,
and I was wondering where the river's
trying to take me
overnight, if I never did resist, and
what strange breezes make a sailor want to
let it come to this,
with lines untied, slipping through my fist.
This is where I played as a baby.
This is where I ran as a child.
This is where my dad took the last breath he had,
and smiled.
I guess I'm wondering
where this place is trying to take me
overnight, if I never did resist, and
what strange breezes make a sailor want to
let it come to this,
with lines untied, slipping through my fist.