Sunk in the loam of a garden bed
Where Latin names are softly read
Heavy and black in the salted clay
Watching the light of the dying day
Count every step on the wooden floor
Walking the path to the open door
Heavy as lead in the pouring rain
Holding the weight of a hidden chain
He feels the pulse of the shaking ground
Waiting for one single hollow sound
One pair of boots on the cedar plank
Deep in the mud where the anchor sank
Water is drinking the thirsty root
Treading the soil with a heavy boot
Patience is grown in the darker silt
Where all the old garden fences tilt
Count every step on the wooden floor
Walking the path to the open door
Heavy as lead in the pouring rain
Holding the weight of a hidden chain
Cold metal skin in a summer storm
Waiting for something to make it warm
Sinking below where the clover grows
Down where the secret of iron goes
The thunder rolls like a heavy stone
Leaving the iron to wait alone
Footsteps are gone from the porch above
Lost in the dirt that the gardeners love
Count every step on the wooden floor
Walking the path to the open door
Heavy as lead in the pouring rain
Holding the weight of a hidden chain
Counting the rain.
Deep in the clay.
One, two, three.
