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The Hand That Fits the Glove

that's seen so many fingers along the way.

Like a weary wandering lark

that's finally found a place to stop and stay.

But I can't stretch the glove to fit the hand.

The lark won't fly forever

Although he thinks he can.

Like the breeze that cools the sun

And gently lets me rest my weary soul.

Like the song of lyric laughter

Tell me all the things that I already know.

But I needn't stretch the glove to fit the hand

The lark won't fly forever

For now he wants to land...