I remember when the wind blew so hard one year it would blow over our tin cups that weren’t full on the old weathered kitchen table. Our house was warm when the fire was hot, and well ventilated in the summer – we can say that. It ain’t easy being a pioneer, when the land is dry and winters are cold.
The thoughts drain my efforts, drain my life. They’re happy thoughts when you remember the past, but they’re also jagged edges that twist the time away like yesterday was my mothers hand.
There should be holes in my heart with all the bullets I’ve let go. And all the tears that I’ve cried.
This life makes a man hard before he knows how to sing. Like the twisting pines around these parts that I know each by name.
And firewood.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]