There’s a hedge made of high red cedar
Shielding the garden, soft and slow
A modest home, no grand theatre
But one small spot still seems to glow

Where the green turns gently west
And the sun hung low in golden thread
I heard your voice—so calm, so blessed—
In early October, near the flowerbed

Mild breeze and the heat long gone
Summer’s ghost in the afternoon sun
A thirty-minute reverie
That only lives inside of me

Under red red cedar sky,
One sweet call, one soft goodbye
Time won’t stop, but I still try
To hear again your soft goodbye

Karl Marx once said, with somber art:
"First as drama, then as farce it starts"
But moments don’t return that way—
They flicker once, then drift away

No second scene, no mirrored light
No day repeats in quite that right
I pass that corner now and then
But that October won’t come again

It wasn’t love, but it was light
A hush, a joke, a voice so right
A single leaf caught in the breeze
The way you paused before you’d leave

Under red red cedar sky,
One sweet call, one soft goodbye
Time won’t stop, but I still try
To hear again your soft goodbye

There’s beauty that can’t be remade
Like sunlight drifting into shade
No rerun, no second take
No perfect copy memory can fake

A modest house, a garden wall
But that one day still holds it all
A hedge, a phone, a fading laugh
The moment gone, no second half

Under red red cedar sky,
One sweet call, one soft goodbye
Time won’t stop, but I still try
To hear again your soft goodbye

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