Tied the ferry to the dock.
Broke the rhythm of the clock.
Walked a mile through salted air.
Found a place beyond a care.
Under screens of rusted gray.
Where the wild clover will stay.
Sinking deep in heavy loam.
Calling this old wasteland home.
Cracked asphalt and broken glass. Watching Taraxacum pass.
Latin names for every weed.
Patience is the only seed.
Under screens of rusted gray.
Where the wild clover will stay.
Sinking deep in heavy loam.
Calling this old wasteland home.
Hiding from the sudden glare.
Dampness hanging in the air.
Scent of diesel, scent of pine.
Drawing out a jagged line.
Under screens of rusted gray.
Where the wild clover will stay.
Sinking deep in heavy loam.
Calling this old wasteland home.
I can hear the root-tips grow.
Moving steady, moving slow.
Concrete gives a little way.
Turning midnight into day.
The projector is a ghost.
Watching from a jagged coast.
Wait for water, wait for rain.
Wash away the summer stain.
Hands are stained with river clay.
Watching colors fade to gray.
I will talk to every stem.
Find the hidden garden gem.
Under screens of rusted gray.
Where the wild clover will stay.
Sinking deep in heavy loam.
Calling this old wasteland home.
Silver screen soil.
Just let it grow.
Keep it slow.
