Waters of March

A stick, a stone, It's the end of the road, It's the rest of a 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, A knot in the wood, The song of a 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 the slope, It's a beam, it's a void, It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks of the waters of March, It's the end of the strain, The joy in your heart

The foot, the ground, The flesh and the bone, The beat of the road, A slingshot's stone

A fish, a flash, A silvery glow, A fight, a bet, The range of a 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 a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house, The body in bed, And the car that got stuck, It's the mud, it's the mud

Afloat, adrift, A flight, a wing, A hawk, a quail, The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, It's the promise of life It's the joy in your heart

A stick, a stone, It's the end of the road It's the rest of a stump, It's a little alone

A snake, a stick, It is John, it is Joe, It's a thorn in your hand and a cut in your toe

A point, a grain, A bee, a bite, A blink, a buzzard, A sudden stroke of night

A pin, a needle, A sting, a pain, A snail, a riddle, A wasp, a stain

A pass in the mountains, A horse and a mule, In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone, The end of the road, The rest of a stump, A lonesome road

A sliver of glass, A life, the sun, A knife, a death, The end of the run

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, It's the end of all strain,