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, A 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 river bank talks, Of the waters of March
It's the end of the strain, The joy in your heart

The foot, the ground, The flesh and the bone

The beat of the road, A slingshot's 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
The shot of a 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

Afloat, adrift, A flight, a wing
A hawk, a quail, The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks, Of the waters of March
It's the promise of life, It's the joy in your heart