The past is An attic room Where I pass the time With you A north facing space Warmed by morning sun And I see you in the evening Out where east meets west Down by that blunt knife river That snakes through the prairie grass The past is An attic room Where I pass the time With you A silhouette in space Formed by morning sun And I see you in the meadow And on those wide, heavy stones Down by that grape vine arbor That sleeps through Winter sand