The wind sure makes a mournful moaning through the moors.
The ones who disappear go out looking for doors.
Though little Mary found the boy who lived to love her
in a world where she was grieving—
and walls can be deceiving—
her face when she was leaving—it gets me every time.
Gets me every time.
"If there’s a key, there must be a door ‘round here somewhere," she said.
Prayers for the little girls whose prickered fingers bled.
Though Mary should have loved the boy who charmed the animals,
that door closed before
we could build a wall around it,
and still the very sound of its hinges makes me wild.
Hinges makes me wild.

The Heart is violent waiting for the snow to melt
To pry up boots and locks of torn hair. We knelt
upon the iron ground and drove out other months
when all the sprays of roses
were red. The earth is knows
when to wilt, and when to grow, and it gets me every time.
Gets me every time.

So, you think you know where little girls go when they’re gone?
If we knew where that secret garden was, we’d burn it down, and
make sure they’d only fall to boys who lived to love them
when the sorry mouths of clouds open
wide above the gardens,
and all the secret things that destroy up wash away.
They just wash away.