She wore nettles and borrowed sleep, married the wind on a Tuesday, and now keeps his coat buttoned with rain.
Listen
Lyrics
She wore a veil of nettles
and boots of borrowed sleep
Married the wind one Tuesday
when the sky forgot to weep
No vows were ever spoken—
just a rustle, just a sigh
The priest was made of smoke
and the chapel couldn’t lie
She danced alone at harvest
with a dress of drifting leaves
The wind would kiss her fingers
then vanish through the eaves
She hums into old bottles
then seals them one by one
Sends them down the valley
each marked: “He was the sun.”
At night she lays out blankets
on the roof, beside a broom
And waits for wind to visit
through the hole he left in gloom
Neighbors hear her talking
to the clothesline, to the dust
Once she baked a pie for fog
and served it out of trust
She keeps a coat for wind to wear
and buttons it with rain
Hangs it on a wire hook
that hums the word “again”
Her garden never grows
but bends politely in the breeze
Each stalk a silent eulogy
Each root a small disease
Still, every dawn she lights a match
and places it outside
Just in case her husband’s ghost
has nowhere else to ride
About this song
She married the wind with no vows and no chapel, and now tends her memories like a garden that never grows.
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