WITH SONG ALONE
Could I bring a morning sun to melt our speech with light
And find the silent buried words our winter keeps in night.
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I do truly think that should summer not awake
and sweep the cold out from her door,
with song alone and nothing more,
I would rile the trees with juice of spring,
soften the fields, put the cold to wing,
and when the planting comes again,
walk out and greet the lark as he begins to sing.
Could I find someone to teach the shadows of our fright
To dance into a golden blaze and dress their shapes in light.
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Could I trace the poet's song that warms the weary back
and lifts the poor returning bird to fly her homeward track.
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Can I find the sun within and feel my song take flight.
A feast of dreams awaits within the rest of winter's night.
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MUSIC IN THE KINGDOM
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Music in the Kingdom comin' ,
Voices singin' and voices hummin'.
Music in the Kingdom comin'.
Hearing God's creatures everywhere.
Sing for the little children fishin' in the brook now
wishin' them luck 'n' now.
Sing for the little children
hearing God's creatures everywhere.
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Sing for the cows and horses
sheltered in the barn from winter's forces.
Sing for the cows and horses
hearing God's creatures everywhere.
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Put a smile on neighbors' faces,
sittin' in their old familiar places.
Put a smile on neighbors' faces,
hearing God's creatures everywhere.
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Sing for the mountain lion
roamin' in the hills, I hear him cryin'.
Sing for the mountain lion
hearing God's creatures everywhere.
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Sing for our lives of plenty.
Heaven help the ones who haven't got any.
Sing for our lives of plenty
hearing God's creatures everywhere.
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GATHERING STORIES
I sit in my room,
a blank sheet before me,
hoping images come,
but they seem to ignore me.
I push and I press till I'm tired,
and the light in my mind has expired.
Then I find a small spark,
and I walk to the door,
and I throw back my head to the dark.
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And I call out, "Words, words,
Come here in herds,
like the caribou, antelope, elk, buffalo,
and gather yourselves in a story.
Pour your light in a bath
through the unsorted world,
where cold silence is swirled,
and lead me an outward
and homeward path."
The farmer he sits
by his fire on the hill.
The lights and the sounds
of the road reach him still.
The highway was cut through his land.
Now the house and the barn stand no more,
and a trailer sits here.
He grows corn for the deer
he'd grown for his cattle before.
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The woodworker lifts
a new frame, beam by beam.
Then his thoughts cast a net,
and he conjures a dream.
While his hard-working mind drifts to sleep,
while his tools lie still on the floor,
his creation will grow
a new coat without seam
that he'd never dreamed before.
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The old woman wakes,
hears a knock at the door.
She's sore, but she rises,
she knows what it's for.
When her tired, sure hands hold the child,
and her rocker it creaks on the floor,
then the new mother smiles,
for she knows now she's more
than she ever dreamed she'd be before.
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UP IN THE MORNING EARLY
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It's up in the morning early
when the best of the day lies ahead.
As you step out of doors
to do dozens of chores,
leave your cares and your worries
behind in the bed.
For they're all just a dream
born in yesterday's dusk,
when the strength to go on
had become just a husk,
and the work seemed like more
than we ever could do
all spread out before us
a tired man's view.
But the dew's on the grass
and there's strength in the limb,
and I find myself humming
a favorite hymn,
or maybe a jig or even a reel,
so the work will be done
with the hope that we feel.
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Well, the boy just turned ten,
and our daughter's fourteen,
and it fills me with pride
when she walks out the team.
Although I may know
what the neighbors do think,
she'd much rather work
with us boys so I think
than shellin' those peas
with her hands in the sink.
And she's got a way
with those horses, you know.
Don't push them too hard,
but she's seldom too slow.
And it sure seems to me
they know she understands;
so they give her their best
and obey her commands.
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Now the meadow below
it is turning dark green,
and to reach it from here
we must cross a small stream.
So a bridge must be made
from the stone and the beam;
and this morning we start it
with strength at full steam.
Thank God for my kids
and the pull of the team.
The mortgage is due
twelve times every year,
and money is scarce
when the payment comes near.
And the wolf at the door
may he bring us no harm;
and pray that we won't
be put off of this farm.
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So gather your strength for the workday,
and the miles ahead you must go.
It's the ache in the arm
that makes this our farm,
using all of the lessons
we're fetched up to know.
For the richness of soil,
all the cows milked and fed,
means the touch of our toil
becomes our daily bread.
But if only we tend
to the toil and the mend
does the work of the land
become our daily bread.
But the dew's on the grass
and there's strength in the limb,
and I find myself humming
a favorite hymn,
or maybe a jig or even a reel,
so the work will be done
in the hope that we feel.
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DANVILLE FAIR
My grandma, she looked after me
when mama wasn't there.
Home at three, and there she'd be
sitting in her chair.
She'd smile at me and nod her head
at the latest square
that she had built to make her quilt
in pieces piled, for new born child,
or for the Danville Fair.
And I would run when school was done
to find her sitting there.
Mom worked late, from noon till eight
and Dad asleep upstairs.
She'd always know, even while she'd sew,
when my mind was off somewhere.
I'd hardly see the work there'd be
in pieces piled, for neighbor's child,
or for the Danville Fair.
Then she would say to me, "Time,
time is the fabric of our days
that we can mend or tear
by what we put our minds upon,
the common things we choose to praise,
or else worry, greed, and care."
My uncle had the farm next door,
He kept a calf for me.
The barn at four to do the chores
and there he'd always be.
He'd say, "Hey Dale go get the pail,
let's give that girl a bath,
then walk her down the pasture path.
Don't be scared, but get prepared,
it's time for Danville Fair."
The hay smell of the barn was sweet,
the breath of horse and cow.
And all around, a voice complete
would whisper, "Here and now."
But my young head, full speed ahead
was ordering my feet.
And Uncle Ben would tell me then,
"There's no place we could better be
than here in Danville fair."
And he would say to me, "Time,
time is the fabric of our days
that always waits out there.
Each day within the morning's blaze
are common things we choose to praise,
or else worry, greed, and care."
Old Harry Danforth on the green,
the North Star photo shows.
A 1919 picture,
with faces no one knows.
He lost his son in World War One,
young Henry "over there",
since then he's tapped his trees alone.
But tools laid down, he comes to town
and works the Danville Fair.
Here's Henry in a photograph
in uniform in France.
The next, a wreath lies on his grave,
he never had a chance.
His fresh young face looks out of place
and maybe frightened too.
I open up the envelope
and post his picture in the air
to show at Danville Fair.
He seems to whisper now, "Time,
time is the fabric of our days,
and it does rend and tear.
So much to see in history.
Our future's where our past returns,
will we know it when it's there?"
And now my child is pretty wild,
I guess like I was then.
The farm ran down, we moved from town,
I can recall just when.
My husband Bob, he got a job
where houses cover field.
And in this place I find no trace
of all that love and care revealed
at home in Danville fair.
My daughter she looks up at me,
a grin across her face.
In each bold choice and in her voice
I find my grandma's trace.
I notice how she meets each task
with that old woman's grace.
And Uncle Ben, his voice again,
with all those words of love and praise,
comes back from Danville fair.
Then I will tell this child, "Time,
time is the fabric of our days
that we can mend or tear.
With tender patterns from the past
we measure out the things that last
finding beauty we can praise."
And grandma said to me, "Time,
time is the fabric of our days
that we can mend or tear
by what we put our minds upon,
the common things we choose to praise,
or else worry, greed, and care."
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THE FIELD IS GREEN
The field is green,
the blade mows clean
as I weave the tractor among the trees.
The mice jump out
and race about,
and the dogs are pointing their nose to the breeze.
The fog is dense
along the fence,
and it hides the valley and cloaks the hill.
The world is small,
the trees are tall,
and their tips asleep in the mist are still.
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There is no way that today can last,
but there is no moment that moves too fast.
There is no peace that I cannot find,
there is no joy I must leave behind.
You little mole,
jump in your hole
while I cut the forest of grass above.
Hey little mouse,
better find your house;
the mower is taking the thicket you love.
Where can I keep
a calm so deep?
I can see the empty nest in the grass.
The birds have flown,
the chicks are grown,
and their wings are lifting them safe at last.
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I keep this all
where I can recall
and summon the pictures before the fire.
They come to light
on a winter night
and swirl through the house like the wind's desire.
Each thing I've done
in snow or sun
makes a shape that nature will treat as art.
The grass will grow,
the snow will blow,
and the trees will reach as high as my heart.
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IN THE WOODS
We burn sunlight in the stove at night,
what the quiet cousins of the wood have made.
In our foot prints through their shade we find
sunlit memories that remind
to what we're given,
of what we're made.
Over our shoulder back out in the woods
we're bolder and bolder,
where there's no oughts or shoulds.
Where they land on our shoulder,
the mights and the coulds,
they come back to meet us
in the wild of the woods.
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PART OF THE GAME
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Part of the game,
part of the game,
no chance of money
and no chance of fame.
But part of a community
where people know my name.
Gave up the big time
for part of the game.
My daddy was a broker
down on the old Wall Street.
My mother was in ballet;
she had those dancing feet.
But I grew corn and peas in pots
out on the fire escape
I watched them grow and ate their treats
and plotted my escape.
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I bought a rundown farm house
on the side of Schoolhouse Hill.
And I worked all that summer
to fix the roof and sill.
October brought the first snowfall
and I was unprepared,
for I had cut no wood at all
and I felt small and scared.
Then I looked out next morning
to the ring of harness bell.
My neighbor with no warning
had his team upon the hill,
and a load of dry split kitchen wood,
his wife was gone three years.
That spring he brought me daffodils,
his face all smiles and tears.
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We built this barn together
from the trees upon our hill
And in all kinds of weather
I see it standing still.
Our garden stretched for miles it seemed,
with hungry mouths to fill.
I took the path to what I dreamed
on childhood's windowsill.
Then one day there came a shadow,
and it fell across our hill.
And how it makes me sad, oh,
I can hardly tell it still.
That day his horse came home alone;
out there his heart grew still.
Our daughters they were nearly grown.
We had big shoes to fill.
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I'm grateful for the choices
I've made along the way,
to hear grandchildren's voices
when loading in the hay.
I helped restore the old town hall
and save the creamery,
and I have stories I can tell
this child upon my knee.
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THE PORTABLE MILL
Well, we thinned out the pine trees
up on Schoolhouse Hill
that were planted by hand
in sunburned glory
back when this land
in an earlier story
was mostly open still.
Now we saw out our logs
on this portable mill.
And I have a young wife
who is carrying life,
and I think about her
and the growing child,
and she worries about me up here
when the weather gets wild.
But I've come to love this,
the wind in the pine,
the cascade of snow dust
through filtered sunshine.
Now I roll up a log,
and I pull down the arm,
and the blade it moves forward
as we saw out this farm.
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Look out, here it comes down,
hear the engine speed up,
watch that saw blade spinning around.
We're sawing thin in an April wind
that mixes our sawdust
right into the snow.
At the end of the log,
the blade spinning still,
we lift up the clapboard
off the portable mill.
All the day long,
while the westerlies blow,
eating lunch on our feet,
we make lumber piles grow.
We will build a new dream here
on this empty place
where the hay barn fell in,
leaving scarcely a trace.
Old timers tell me
it was young Bowman Shattuck
who planted all these trees,
singing "Blessed Assurance"
on his hands and his knees.
And when our child is born,
the old tales I'll retell,
how hardships and joys
on these people fell.
And these timbers we saw into planks,
they will fill in the blanks
that were left when the buildings
collapsed or were burned
by the slow hand of time
or when good fortune turned.
Now I roll the next log,
and I pull down the arm,
and our life it moves forward
as we rebuild this farm.
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SNOW SHANTY
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Well it's yo heave ho, and away we go
through the snow and the wind and the rain.
We're off to the field with our blades of steel
and we'll do it again and again, brave boys,
we'll do it again and again.
We'll clip those trees
in a light spring breeze,
just a mild mid-April blow.
Then up comes a squall
and covers us all
in a blanket of thick wet snow, brave boys,
in a blanket of thick wet snow.
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Well, the boss says "Boys,
let's all collect our toys,
and we'll head back to the barn.
We'll turn up the heat
and we'll dry out our feet,
and see if we can spin a yarn, brave boys,
and see if we can spin a yarn."
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Well it's yo heave ho back home we go
through the snow and the wind and the rain
we're in from the field but our feet can't feel
and the cold in our toes is a pain, brave boys,
but we'll do it again and again.
It ain't much fun
when you don't see the sun
and the snowy winds do blow
down your back all the day
and the sea that you know's
far away and so far below, brave boys,
these fir trees in Tampico.
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Well, now let's pretend
this old barn is a ship
while the snowy winds do blow.
It's fun just to think
that we prob'ly won't sink;
on the rocks, we will never go, brave boys,
but back to the trees and the snow.
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THE WEATHER SONG
What is the weather from Breen and Maleski?
We want to know what will happen today
Will we be indoors and trapped at our desky,
or can we go out in the sunshine and play?
Whether or not weather pleases us,
it comes and cooks or it freezes us.
Clear skies were boldly predicted,
then rain came with thunder and soon contradicted.
What is the weather from Breen and Maleski?
We want to know what our hay crop will yield.
When we have cut it the raindrops are pesky,
and will there be hailstones to flatten the field?
Whether or not weather pleases us,
it comes and cooks or it freezes us.
I must live with weather uncertainty.
What's falling now isn't really hurt'n me.
What is the weather from Fairbanks Museum?
We've planned a picnic, a trip to the shore,
We don't mind horseflies or even no-see-'ums,
but we'd like to know there'd be sunshine galore
Whether or not weather pleases us,
it comes and cooks or it freezes us.
If we don't tune in the station,
we're sure to miss out on today's conversation.
What is the weather, Maleski and Breen?
You're the best weathermen we've ever seen.
Regardless of circumstance or evil weather,
Your melodious voices make the weather sound bett'r.
Whether or not weather pleases us,
It comes and cooks or it freezes us.
We must think they've got special powers,
'cause we praise them or blame them come sunshine or showers.
What is the weather from Steve, Chris, and Mark
I would like not to be kept in the dark.
Drink up my coffee for soon I must leave.
But I need the "OK" from Mark, Chris, and Steve.
Yes, I need permission from Mark, Chris, and Steve
Whether or not weather pleases us,
it comes and cooks or it freezes us.
This cliché has wisdom built in it:
"If you don't like our weather, you just wait a minute."
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BIG HOUSE LITTLE HOUSE
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Big house, little house, back house, barn,
all built together on the family farm.
Walking to the barn to do our chores,
we're feeling mighty glad to stay indoors.
Grandma goes to the woodshed pile;
wants to bake biscuits in a little while.
A big raccoon a-sittin on her wood,
says, "A plate of them with honey now would sure taste good."
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Grandpa sleeps in his rocking chair;
starts in to snoring and it's giving him a scare.
Opens up his eyes as he starts awake,
"What's all the racket now for heaven's sake"?
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Pop is feeling low, like he's got no pep;
goes out to the backhouse just to lighten up his step.
He sits there thinkin' of the changes comin',
hopin' hard that one of them is indoor plumbin'.
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The barn stayed warm through the winter night,
the animals in and the doors pulled tight.
Now all the cows are gone and the barn is cold;
memories are all that the haymows hold.
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But Pop is keeping up with the modern times;
he sits at the table, and he thinks up rhymes.
He plays and he fiddles for the summer folks;
they love to hear his riddles and his corny jokes.
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Big house, little house, back house, barn.
Changes are a'comin' to the family farm.
Music in the barn till the morning light.
Raccoons have moved out; too much noise at night.
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A THOUSAND GOOD REASONS TO SING Sing of the black earth, planted with corn,
softened with rain until green life is born.
Remember your life is not just a big race,
and you'll find the day wearing its beautiful face.
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And my soul climbs up on its song
to take wing, and flies, and finds
a thousand good reasons to sing,
a thousand good reasons to sing.
Sing of the hands that learn how to play
music that chases the dark fears away.
If we can't change the world and our choices seem few,
we always can alter our own point of view.
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Sing to the words of a beautiful grace,
sing to the smile on a dear loved one's face.
Sing of the night that grows from the day,
when the pains of our labor will all wash away.
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Sing of your life, every delicate part,
sing to each memory that lives in your heart.
Sing to the ruin of all that is falling,
sing to the future that through it is calling.
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