Sunday Shoes, carved in stone
Lining the walls of your grandmother's home
And in many ways, they’ve remained the same
Since the day her eyes peeled through the window pane
There is a tree
Goldenrod and wild thyme
Fill the field that meet here mountainside
In here hand build house, and her god built home
Her mind has seen more than a river stone
There is a tree
These woods are filled with forgotten homes
Voiceless footprint of the ones who use to roam
But their memories now, stacks of stone
A cardinal fills the space where the leaves have blown
There is a tree
She's climbed the mountain side
Time and time again
And at the top, there is a stone
With a name carved in
And in its shadow
There is a tree
Filled with the carvings of lovers and beasts
And it says to me
She picks up her soul, from the window sill
Fills her arms with the word she’s yet to kill
In her rosary and her sunday shoes
She walks to the field where she buried her lover's blues
There is a tree
Filled with the carvings of lovers and beasts
And it says to me
These marks are the only things we leave
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