Copper leaves on a Boston street
Cold red bricks underneath his feet
Heavy wind in a woollen coat
Small brass key in a winter mote
Golden metal with no open door
Searching paths he has walked before
Turning circles in a frozen hand
Sifting salt from the urban sand
Iron fences and gray stone walls
Winter rain on the city halls
Sooty windows and blackened glass
Watching all of the strangers pass
Golden metal with no open door
Searching paths he has walked before
Turning circles in a frozen hand
Sifting salt from the urban sand
Oldest sidewalk of weathered clay
Where the ghosts of the sailors stay
He remembers a harbor light
Cutting deep through the velvet night
A stranger stops with a steady gaze
Walking through the October haze
A sudden touch on a shaking wrist
Warmth returns in a morning mist
One small spark in a lonely town
Where the autumn gold settles down
No more locking the heavy gate
He lets go of the heavy weight
Golden metal with no open door
Searching paths he has walked before
Turning circles in a frozen hand
Sifting salt from the urban sand
He leaves the brass on a granite ledge
Right beside the old garden edge
Now the lock is a memory
Floating out on a restless sea
Golden metal with no open door
Searching paths he has walked before
Turning circles in a frozen hand
Sifting salt from the urban sand
Let it go.
Just let it go.
