Piece By Piece

piece by lonely piece the mountainside tumbles away

back down to the river bottom lined with pocket worry stones

a hundred years in hand worn smooth by long grandmother nights

sitting by the rocking chair waiting for the world

oh, if I could roll back all the years and talk to my daddy's dad

about all the fears I'm leaving in that maybe he had had

I might get some light to shine down this dusty old dry well

hear the bucket hit the bottom and the rope come rolling by

when three hundred years has been the time from whence it came

why hadn't someone yet figured out to lower down the gun

and shoot out the middle of this clawing, staring eye?

hear the bucket hit the bottom and the rope come rolling by

sitting by that old rocking chair waiting for the world