Friday, September 30, 2011
from The News: Monday-Friday by Sara Bouchard
lyrics
My mother works at the rain garden from nine to five each day
(She figures it’s a sure bet - there’s no shortage of rain.)
While I go to school and tinker with tin cans and twine.
One day I’ll be an engineer at the wind turbine.
The water is rising and the wind is never still.
And so we reap the wind and so we reap the rain
And so we reap the methane produced in our floating landfill.
Our responsibilities we pursue with pride,
Sailing portable temples across the raging tide.
Her still small voice is clearly heard with an archaic sound,
Drifting upward, rising more and less, its rhythm deftly found.
Mother, tell me a good story of grass-covered meadows
And of my haunted father who I will never know.
She waves a hand toward the photograph and her lips quiver at the name.
I recognize my eyes in his - the shape of the curve was the same.
He helped build the new infrastructure, but he was a wild-eyed dreamer.
Word got out he was a wanderlust, and he was forced to disappear.
At night the phosphorescence is kicked up by the wake.
And the rhythm of the ocean mirrors the pattern of our tracks.
I wonder, are these dreams some kind of premonition?
As we venture into the future amidst the changing seasons.
The water is rising and the wind is never still.
And so we reap the wind and so we reap the rain
And so we reap the methane produced in our floating landfill.
And I am still haunted by the ones we left behind.
We're sailing portable temples across the raging tide.
(She figures it’s a sure bet - there’s no shortage of rain.)
While I go to school and tinker with tin cans and twine.
One day I’ll be an engineer at the wind turbine.
The water is rising and the wind is never still.
And so we reap the wind and so we reap the rain
And so we reap the methane produced in our floating landfill.
Our responsibilities we pursue with pride,
Sailing portable temples across the raging tide.
Her still small voice is clearly heard with an archaic sound,
Drifting upward, rising more and less, its rhythm deftly found.
Mother, tell me a good story of grass-covered meadows
And of my haunted father who I will never know.
She waves a hand toward the photograph and her lips quiver at the name.
I recognize my eyes in his - the shape of the curve was the same.
He helped build the new infrastructure, but he was a wild-eyed dreamer.
Word got out he was a wanderlust, and he was forced to disappear.
At night the phosphorescence is kicked up by the wake.
And the rhythm of the ocean mirrors the pattern of our tracks.
I wonder, are these dreams some kind of premonition?
As we venture into the future amidst the changing seasons.
The water is rising and the wind is never still.
And so we reap the wind and so we reap the rain
And so we reap the methane produced in our floating landfill.
And I am still haunted by the ones we left behind.
We're sailing portable temples across the raging tide.
credits
from The News: Monday-Friday,
released March 2, 2012
license
all rights reserved
tags
about
Sara Bouchard Richmond, Virginia
I am a multi-disciplinary artist and songwriter with a strong foothold in American roots. As an artist, I investigate ways to interact with and represent the American landscape through song. As a musician, I perform original and traditional tunes - drawn from bluegrass, old-time, jazz, country and blues - with my band SALT PARADE. ... more
discography
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Mar 2024 -
May 2023 -
Jun 2019 -
Feb 2014
contact / help
Sara Bouchard recommends:
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Spring to Rust
by Union Street Preservation SocietyCheck out Union Street Preservation Society, an Americana roots string band, featuring Sara on mandolin and vocals.
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Postcards From the Country
by Trae SheehanWest Virginia country-folk singer-songwriter Trae Sheehan aims to find a balance between the traditional and the modern on his new LP.
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Meet Me at the River
by Dawn LandesOn “Meet Me By the River,” Dawn Landes’s self-described “Nashville record,” buoyant country melodies settle deep into lush instrumentation.
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