I can see a blade of grass
I can see a single blade of grass
With a line of dewdrops holding under the winter sun

I can sense a restless breeze
I can sense a restless shivering breeze
As it blows the eye to the edge of the cold, inanimate plash

I can hear a heron call
I can hear a heron's solitary call
As she waits on a distant rock untroubled by all she sees

We're under a barren tree
We're under a barren sycamore tree
With an ancient wound from a broken branch that was lost to the squall

We will gather some scraps of wood
We will gather some trampled scraps of wood
And we'll carry them home for tomorrow's kindling they will be

And whenever our work is done
Whenever this work is finally done
We will riddle the embers knowing what we have is good