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Your knuckles are scarred from the heavy oars,
We’ve dragged our shadows through a thousand shores.
Now the map is folded, the ink is dry,
There’s a different gravity in your eye.
The state won’t have us in their iron book,
They turn away with a hollow look.
we hide in the brush where the hemlock grows,
Taking the vow that the thicket knows.
Marry me now in the belly of the barn,
Wrapped in the scrap of some old grey yarn.
A holy thing that the law won't sign,
Put your shaking pulse against mine.
Ben holds a match to a cedar spray,
Watching the smoke as it drifts away.
No gold to give, just a copper ring,
The heavy weight of a silent thing.
The engine is humming a low, dark tune,
Under the ghost of a morning moon.
Go where you must, let the distance start,
But carry the marrow of my heart.
Marry me now in the belly of the barn,
Wrapped in the scrap of some old grey yarn.
A holy thing that the law won't sign,
Put your shaking pulse against mine.
