A stick a stone  

it's the end of the road,   

   

it's the rest of the stump   

it's a little alone   

   

it's a sliver of glass,   

it is life,it's the sun,   

   

it is night ,it is death,   

it's a trap, it's a gun.   

   

the oak when it blooms,   

a fox in the brush,   

   

the knot in the wood,   

the song of the thrush.   

   

the wood of the wind,   

a cliff, a fall,   

   

a scratch, a lump,   

it is nothing at all.   

   

it's the wind blowing free.   

it's the end of a slope.   

   

it's a beam, it's a void,   

it's a hunch, it's a hope.   

   

and the riverbank talks.   

of the water of march   

   

it's the end of the strain,   

it's the joy in your heart.   

   

the foot, the ground,   

the flesh, the bone,   

   

the beat of the road,   

a slingshot stone.   

   

a fish, a flash,   

a silvery glow,   

   

a fight, a bet,   

the range of the bow.   

   

the bed of the well,   

the end of the line,   

   

the dismay in the face,   

it's a loss, it's a find.   

   

a spear, a spike,   

a point, a nail,   

   

a drip, a drop,   

the end of the tale.   

   

a truckload of bricks,   

in the soft morning light,   

   

the shot of a gun,   

in the dead of the night.   

   

a mile, a must,   

a thrust, a bump.   

   

it's a girl, it's a rhyme.   

it's the cold, it's the mumps.   

   

the plan of the house,   

the body in bed,   

   

the car that got stuck,   

it's the mud, it's the mud