Somehow the turning of the season 
Made real not by the first glimmer 

Of sun stretching through the gloom 
I listened to an album I have heard 

Maybe a thousand times in the past 
The revelation of information encoded 

Almost overwhelming the senses 
Evidence not only each time you play 

This piece of music you hear something else 
And that every time is an invisible experience 

Unrepeatable in its innocent imperfections 
The half harvest of a brave new world