Clackamas River |
I became enamored with the murmur of the river at her chore. She was rolling the round stones down the mountain.
The stones on the beach were at a resting point in their enduring journey. They sat, serene as monks, awaiting the next springtime push. Ferruginous, turquoise, and amber veins recalled the subterranean home to which they hope to return someday.
They dream of home at the end of the pilgrimage.
Home.
Not today, nor tomorrow, nor in a thousand generations of men. But in time... in time.
Stones would play inside her head And where she slept, They made her bed And she would ache for love And get but stones La la la la la la la la la la la |
Lordy, child A good day's comin' And I'll be there to let the sun in And bein' lost Is worth the comin' home La la la la la la la la la on stones |
You and me, a time for planting You and me, a harvest granting The every prayer ever prayed For just two wild flowers that grow |
La la la la la la la la la on stones |
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