He stands where the red bricks meet
The rush of a Boston street
The Acer Rubrum turns red
While a thousand stories are spread
He plays the song of the stone
A melody played all alone
The bow moves slow on the string
While the autumn spirits sing
His fingers are weathered and brown
Like the roots of a plant in the town
He watches the passersby go
In a steady and rhythmic flow
The Quercus Alba drops a leaf
A moment of golden relief
He hums to the soil and the clay
As the sunlight fades from the day
He plays the song of the stone
A melody played all alone
The bow moves slow on the string
While the autumn spirits sing
The wind kicks up a salty spray
Turning the orange to gray
But the rhythm stays deep in the bone
A seed in the sidewalk is sown
He knows every crack in the wall
He waits for the winter to call
The music is thick like the loam
Giving the wanderer a home
He plays the song of the stone
A melody played all alone
The bow moves slow on the string
While the autumn spirits sing
Just a bow and a brick
The clock begins to tick
Let the music grow.
