The copper vane turns on the roof
The morning air is cold and proof
It points the way to where it goes
While in the yard the winter blows
Inside the room the steam will rise
A silver cloud before the eyes
The kitchen tile is pale and white
Caught in the glow of early light
Spinning slow in a circle of gold
Stories that the north wind told
Turning round where the heavy air clings
Listen to the song the metal sings
The tea is steeped in ceramic blue
The window pane is damp with dew
A wooden chair sits by the wall
While autumn leaves begin to fall
Spinning slow in a circle of gold
Stories that the north wind told
Turning round where the heavy air clings
Listen to the song the metal sings
The iron pot begins to shake
A sudden sound that makes a wake
The steady beat of a ticking clock
The heavy key inside the lock
The copper arm will shift its face
Moving with a steady grace
It watches over every street
Where the gray and velvet meet
The kettle whistles sharp and clear
The only sound the walls can hear
The porcelain cup is warm to hold
Before the morning air grows cold
Spinning slow in a circle of gold
Stories that the north wind told
Turning round where the heavy air clings
Listen to the song the metal sings
Copper turning green
Kettle humming low
