I am the red clay baked in the heat
The frozen bone of a Boston street
He walks with seeds in a canvas bag
A heavy coat and a woolen rag
I hold his heel in a jagged crack
A sudden pull and a sudden snap
Caught in the grip of a historic stone
A quiet seed in a city zone
He talks of soil and the loam below
Where the secret Latin flowers grow
He calls the moss by a formal name
While the autumn wind begins its game
He tries to move but the edge is keen
The sharpest bite that he's ever seen
His leather sole is a broken wing
I feel the tension and hear it ring
I hold his heel in a jagged crack
A sudden pull and a sudden snap
Caught in the grip of a historic stone
A quiet seed in a city zone
He does not fight and he does not swear
He breathes the crisp and the salty air
He looks at me with a patient eye
Under a grey and a heavy sky
He drops a seed of a rare design
A tiny speck of a climbing vine
It falls inside of my open vein
To wait for winter and wait for rain
I hold his heel in a jagged crack
A sudden pull and a sudden snap
Caught in the grip of a historic stone
A quiet seed in a city zone
Rooted deep.
Rooted deep.
Red brick grip.
