| When you pick a sprig of balsam pine, |
| On your hike along the mountain view, |
| You can wrap the scent in corduroy, |
| And bring the mountain home with you. |
| When you sit beside the ocean’s edge |
| And dream of what might come to be, |
| Your fingers keep the taste of salt, |
| From the castles made beside the sea. |
| I’m lonely at work now, |
| My hand holds my chin. |
| And my mischievous fingers remind me, |
| And cover my grin. |
| The scent takes me dreaming, |
| To wildberry pie, |
| And the wind hits my sails |
| With the sound of your trembling sigh. |
| When we work to make a berry pie, |
| Lips can tell where we have been, |
| Out picking huckleberries wild, |
| To bring the harvest home again. |
| And on the way we sang a tune, |
| What I said is what I meant, |
| Our love is like a red, red rose-- |
| It leaves a certain subtle scent. |
| I’m lonely at work now. |
| My hand holds my chin, |
| And my mischievous fingers remind me and cover my grin |
| The scent takes me dreaming, |
| Of wildberry pie, |
| And the wind hits my sails with the sound of your trembling sigh. |
| And the wind hits my sails with the sound of your trembling sigh. |
| © David Wilcox, all rights reserved |