I lean on a cold iron gate
The winter is heavy and late
I wear a thin coat of old ink
The frozen grey sky starts to blink
The apple trees sleep in the white
I watch through the dying blue light
My corners are curled by the dew
I wait for a word that is new
I am the paper guard of the snow
Watching the bitter north wind blow
Still as a stone in the orchard air
Holding a promise that is there
A stamp from a town far away
Where gold summer meadows would sway
I remember the heat of the hand
That sent me to this lonely land
I am the paper guard of the snow
Watching the bitter north wind blow
Still as a stone in the orchard air
Holding a promise that is there
The frost bites the edge of my skin
The long midnight hour begins
But I keep the garden in sight
Under the pale yellow light
The crows circle low in the haze
Counting the length of my days
I smell the salt air and the pine
Waiting for a distant sign
The coffee is black in the pot
This frozen old ground is my lot
I stand where the heavy boughs bend
Waiting for the winter to end
I am the paper guard of the snow
Watching the bitter north wind blow
Still as a stone in the orchard air
Holding a promise that is there
Just a card in the cold
A story that refuses to fold
Yeah, I'm still here.
