DRY LEAVES OF WINTER

I would rather hear the rustle
Of the dry leaves of winter
Then to hear the distant rumble
Of the autumn guns of war.
And I wonder if I'll ever see
The place I once called home.
And I wonder if you're waiting there for me.
I've been here now two years and more
And when I'll leave I cannot know.
But when ever I return to home
I'm sure that I will never ever go.
And I long to feel the chilling wind
And to see the fields fresh with snow
And to smell the maple syrup
In the kettle far below.
And I long to hear the rustle
Of the dry leaves of winter
As they blow across the doorstep
Of my Massachusetts home.