[working title]

The strength of which we are a part
of crocuses in spring,
The iron taste of well water
will through this trifle sing.
And all of which we are a part
and circling we fly
toward a water-carven rock
abed in fields of rye.

The mouth opens to welcome home
a minerally grit
to rinse away all childish lies
that harm the root
and sit
amid the lilies, soft and white,
that waver in the breeze,
pulling from that strength
without which we
are less than . . .

And so, tradition spurned,
and all our gathering is done,
amid those fields of rye
we stay
to sing and be undone.

enough

Bb                      d
scratching at the surface
Eb               Bb     
so hard it bleeds
Bb                        d
pickled yellow lemon rinds
Eb                     Bb                    
overwhelmed in sugar

g    F  g                  F7
listen, licking at the edges,
            Eb                     Bb
for the swishing wash of tide
 g   F     g     F
enough, enough
                   Eb
to drain the vinegar
g     d(sus) Bb  F
into brine

Bb                     d
stop and be content
     Eb                 Bb
as memories will fade
           Bb             d
more quickly than blossoms
  Eb                Bb
shrink and go gray

g            F   g                    F7
taste them,  peeling at the edges,
             Eb                  Bb
in the swishing wash of tide
 g  F      g  F
enough, enough
                   Eb
to drain the vinegar
g     d(sus) Bb  F
into brine

[bridge]
Bb  Eb  Bb7  g F  Bb  (or whatever)

Bb                   d
sour fruits go missing
  Eb                       Bb  (something else here)
among the spiced waves
g                F   g                  F7
squeeze them, frozen at the edges,
             d7     g           F
in the clanking wash of tide
   g   F                 
enough
 d7                F
to turn the vinegar
g           Bb  F        
back to wine

Bb             d              Eb   Bb  F Bb
      it's enough, it's enough