Waters of March

A stick, a stone

It's the end of the road

It's the rest of a stump

It's a little alone.

It's a sliver of glass

It is life, it's the sun

It is night, it is death

It's a trap, it's a gun.

The oak when it blooms,

A fox in the brush

A knot in the wood

The song of a thrush

The wood of the wind

The cliff, a fall

A scratch, a lump

It is nothing at all.

It's the wind blowing free

It's the end of the slope

It's a beam, it's a void

It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the riverbank talks

Of the waters of March;

It's the end of the strain

It's the joy in your heart.

The foot, the ground

The flesh and the bone

The beat of the road

A slingshot stone

A fish, a flash

A silvery glow.

A fight, a bet

The range of a bow.

The bed of the well,

The end of the line,

The dismay in the face.

It's a loss, it's a find.

A spear, a spike

A point, a nail,

A drip, a drop

The end of the tale.

A truckload of bricks

In the soft morning light,

It's the shot of the gun

In the dead of the night.

A mile, a must

A thrust, a bump

It's a girl, it's a rhyme

It's a cold, it's the mumps.

The plan of the house.

The body in bed.

And the car that got stuck.

It's the mud, it's the mud.

A float, a drift

A flight, a wing

A hawk, a quail

The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks

Of the waters of March

It's the joy in your heart

It's the joy in your heart.

A snake, a stick

It is John, it is Joe

It's a thorn in your hand

Or a cut on your toe,

A point, a grain

A bee, a bite

A blink, a buzzard

A sudden stroke of night.

A pin, a needle

A sting, a pain

A snail, a wasp

A riddle, a stain.

A pass in the moutains

A horse and a mule,

In the distance the shelves

Grow three shadows of blue.

And the riverbank talks

Of the waters of March

It's the promise of life

In your heart, in your heart.

A stick, a stone,

The end of the load,

The rest of the stump,

A lonesome road.

A sliver of glass,

A life, the sun,

A night, the death,

The end of the run.

And the riverbank talks

Of the waters of March,

It's the end of all strain,

It's the joy in your heart.

It's the joy in your heart.

It's the joy in your heart.

It's the joy in your heart.

----- as sung by Jane Monheit

(how she manages to remember it all, I can't imagine.)