Cold iron rails in a hollow deep
Where the tired city goes to sleep
A brass eye stares at a concrete ceiling
A heavy sort of metal feeling
I plant the seeds in the urban grit
Where the hardy weeds and mosses sit
Monarda blooms in a salty crack
Waiting for the last train to come back
Look through the glass at the hidden star
We see the light from a place so far
Deep in the soil and the heavy stone
We find a garden we call our own
The polished lens is a golden hue
Painting the gray in a shade of blue
The subway wind is a sudden breeze
Shaking the stems of the dormant trees
Look through the glass at the hidden star
We see the light from a place so far
Deep in the soil and the heavy stone
We find a garden we call our own
The Latin names are a quiet prayer
Scent of the loam in the humid air
Hold the focus till the image clears
Washing away all the lonely years
The brass is warm to a steady hand
Tracing the maps of a distant land
I prune the leaves of a wilder vine
Where the silver tracks and the ivy twine
The platform waits for a ghost to ride
While the roots of the clover swell inside
A telescope points to a void of white
Capturing pieces of velvet night
Look through the glass at the hidden star
We see the light from a place so far
Deep in the soil and the heavy stone
We find a garden we call our own
Brass and bedrock.
Just a little more light.
