She blew in on the morning tide
And found a valley, steep and wide
Where she grew woods and patures green
And dug the beds for creeks and streams
She chose the colors for the leaves
That drift down from the autumn trees
All amber tones until the spring
Will turn them back to shades of green
Then she swept up with her broom
And climbed up to her children's room
She gave them each a little breath
Before she tucked them into bed
She rose at dawn to find instead
Of children, rows of empty beds
For they had run both far and wide
Then gone out on the evening tide
She searched the woods and fields below
Before she went down to the shore
She ran from one end to the other
Then pushed her boat into the water
Since then she's steered her little boat
And strummed upon her broken harp
She holds it close to her in grief
And calls her children, lost at sea.
