The Giving Strand

[Verse 1]
The sweetgrass bleeds a little green on my thumb.
August sun beatin' a rhythm like a drum
On the tin roof of the shed, where I've come undone
For seven years now, just tryna make one.

[Chorus]
And oh, the giving strand, the patient coil,
Something holy growin' from this Lowcountry soil.
One good basket, finally come to be—
Something whole that started from the broken parts of me.

[Verse 2]
The brittle memories I couldn't weave before
Used to snap the bulrush, leave my knuckles raw.
Now my calloused hands know what this needle's for:
To pull the loose ends through and not want for more.

[Spoken-Word Interlude]
(A distant, filtered female voice, like a memory or an old tape recording, over a phasing synth arpeggio and the sound of rain on tin)
"'Breathe with it, son,' she'd say. 'Don't you fight the coil. The basket knows its own shape. You just gotta listen...'"

[Chorus]
And oh, the giving strand, the patient coil,
Something holy growin' from this Lowcountry soil.
One good basket, finally come to be—
Something whole that started from the broken parts of me.

[Bridge]
It ain't Granddaddy's dovetail, ain't my brother's laugh,
Just a circle of grass on a dusty path.
But it holds the air inside it, holds the afternoon light,
And for the first time since, that feels about right.

[Outro]
My hands don't shake tonight.
Yeah, my hands don't shake tonight.