A stick a stone
it`s the end of the road,
it`s the rest of the stump
it`s a little alone
it`s a sliver of glass,
it is life, it’s the sun,
it is night, it is death,
it`s a trap, it`s a gun.
The oak when it blooms,
a fox in the brush,
the knot in the wood,
the song of the thrush.
The wood of the wind,
a cliff, a fall,
a scratch, a lump,
it is nothing at all.
It’s the wind blowing free.
It’s the end of a slope.
It’s a beam, it`s a void,
it`s a hunch, it`s a hope.
And the riverbank talks.
Of the water of March
it`s the end of the strain,
it`s the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground,
the flesh, the bone,
the beat of the road,
a slingshot stone.
a fish, a flash,
a silvery glow,
a fight, a bet,
the range of the bow.
The bed of the well,
the end of the line,
the dismay in the face,
it`s a loss, it`s a find.
A spear, a spike,
a point, a nail,
a drip, a drop,
the end of the tale.
A truckload of bricks,
in the soft morning light,
the shot of a gun,
in the dead of the night.
A mile, a must,
a thrust, a bump.
It’s a girl, it`s a rhyme.
it`s the cold, it`s the mumps.
The plan of the house,
the body in bed,
the car that got stuck,
it`s the mud, it`s the mud.
A float, a drift,
a flight, a wing,
ahawk, a quail,
the promise of spring.
And the riverbanks talks.
Of the waters of March.
It’s the promise of life,
it`s the joy in your heart,
a snake, a stick,
it is john, it is joe,
it`s a thorn in your hand,
and a cut on your toe.
A point, a grain,
a bee, a bite,
a blink, a buzzard,
the sudden stroke of night.
A pin, a needle,
a sting, a pain,
a snail, a riddle,
a weep, a stain.
A pass in the mountains.
A horse, a mule,
in the distance the shelves.
Rode three shadows of blue.
And the riverbank talks
of the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart
a stick, a stone,
the end of the load,
the rest of the stump,
a lonesome road.
a sliver of glass,
a life, the sun,
a night, a death,
the end of the run
and the riverbank talks
of the waters of march
it`s the end of all strain
it`s the joy in your heart
