When the spring crust is your Renoir.
Your inner child might be your car.
A highway in all directions.
All things open to inspection.
Fields, swamps, barrens all in reach.
No questions asked just pick that peach.
Over barrens fast asleep.
Where in summer we dare not creep.
Never thinking of the turning dial.
Those carefree moments bring a smile.
Now I think I understand the game.
The precise moment to turn home again.
So why am I knee deep in snow.
With the tough mile yet to go.