That wooden boat has never left the bank,

the oars lie rotten in their rusted locks,

and water seeps around a shrinking plank.

Some hand has drawn her name anew, and yet

that wooden boat has never left the bank.

This brackish creek does not lead to the sea;

it does not trill the song of stream on stone,

but goes to ground beneath a live oak tree.

We fashioned pan pipes from these rushes once.

This brackish creek does not lead to the sea.

This land has always been both bleak and green:

it takes no heed of our meek stewardship.

The hollyhocks can seed themselves between

the orchard rows where countless almonds fall.

This land has always been both bleak and green.