Track Insight / Lyrics
He watches the taraxacum, purple daisies twining in glass.
The soil whispers as the sun hits the bean stalk, a pulse.
Behind the barn, crickets carve a rhythm, counting in pitch.
A muted trumpet sighs from the cellar, a low, aching ring.
Shadows sway past the rosemary, nodes bending toward the wind.
The upright bass thumps from the garage, shaking the cracked floorboards.
Crickets tap out chords on the
lead roof ivory legs clack loud
The botanist lifts a care root, polishing the spot of green.
It's a low hum in the cracked wood, a melody from living walls.
The crickets tune beneath the barn, each mandible clicking in time.
Botanist breathes, holds soil between fingers, steady as a drum.
The music pours like rain on concrete, a secret we don't need to rhyme.
The trumpet's lips are muted, powdery like loam dust.
Each cricket's rhythm is a barefoot click on cinder blocks.
The botanist sighs, the soil speaks in rusted tones.
Crickets keep their count, the barn hums back in arcade tones.
It's a low hum in cracked wood, a melody from living walls.
Crickets press their mandibles on boards, each note a quiet call.
The upright bass hums beside the dirt, pacing the night.
The gardener smiles, root to ear, hearing the pulse align.
