You stand where the salt spray blows.
Where the wild Monarda grows.
Cold iron rings on the pier.
The morning mist feels so near.
Green glass harbor, silver tide.
Nowhere left for you to hide.
Tangled up in hemp and brine.
Wait for the gold summer line.
You touch the rough wooden beam.
Like a dormant winter dream.
Salty air on your pale skin.
Where the deep blue currents spin.
Green glass harbor, silver tide.
Nowhere left for you to hide.
Tangled up in hemp and brine.
Wait for the gold summer line.
You know how the orchid clings.
How the heavy nectar sings.
Sifting loam through your tired hand.
Far away from the dry land.
Green glass harbor, silver tide.
Nowhere left for you to hide.
Tangled up in hemp and brine.
Wait for the gold summer line.
The ferry dock is a ghost.
A lonely and frozen post.
Sedges bend in the low breeze.
Bringing you down to your knees.
Latin names for every weed.
Patient soil and a tiny seed.
Slow your breath to the ocean beat.
Feel the cold on your bare feet.
The Solanum starts to bloom.
Cutting through the early gloom.
Hold the vine till it lets go.
Watch the river current flow.
Green glass harbor, silver tide.
Nowhere left for you to hide.
Tangled up in hemp and brine.
Wait for the gold summer line.
Just a seed in the gray.
Wait for the light of day.
