I am the window in the attic wall.
I watch the winter morning start to fall.
I feel the salt air on my frozen pane.
I hold the secrets of the coastal rain.
He climbs the ladder to the highest floor.
He opens up the heavy wooden door.
The morning sun hits like a golden bell.
A story only weathered glass can tell.
He wears a jacket stained with diesel oil.
His calloused hands are used to heavy toil.
He searches through the boxes and the crates.
While down below the morning ferry waits.
He finds a photograph of blue and green.
The clearest water that he's ever seen.
He holds it close against the yellow glare.
The smell of cedar fills the stagnant air.
He climbs the ladder to the highest floor.
He opens up the heavy wooden door.
The morning sun hits like a golden bell.
A story only weathered glass can tell.
The brass key turns inside the rusty lock.
The rhythm ticks just like a kitchen clock.
He breathes the warmth of early amber haze.
Lost in the loop of better summer days.
He leaves the attic for the open quay.
To steer his vessel out toward the sea.
He leaves the window and the dusty shelf.
To find the pieces of his younger self.
He climbs the ladder to the highest floor.
He opens up the heavy wooden door.
The morning sun hits like a golden bell.
A story only weathered glass can tell.
Golden glass, gold light.
He sails into the light.
