[Intro - Wood And Breath] Green wood looks ready in sunlight. Weather makes it answer. [Verse 1 - Sparse Machinery] Green wood, newly spring-cut, straight and heavy in the light, full of all the rain it carried, swearing it could bear the weight. I was young and quick to fell it, ready to believe the grain, but a thing can look like shelter while it's learning how to change. [Pre-Chorus - Pressure Builds] Let it breathe through every season. Let the slow years have their say. Before you give it all your weight, knock, and hear what answers back. [Chorus - Distortion Enters] Call me seasoned--I'm still building. Every winter left a ring. Rain went out and grain drew tighter. Now I know which timber sings. Knock the log and hear the weather run clear through the grain. Green wood thuds, but seasoned rings. I won't trust hollow again. [Verse 2 - Current And Weight] I was green when I was younger, full of vows I thought I'd keep, blaming storms for every washout while the split ran underneath. I bent myself to fit the current, called my bending proof of strength, till I learned a dam worth trusting holds the pond and lets the spillway run. It holds without consuming. It gives without giving way. [Refrain - Timber Knock] Green wood thuds, but seasoned rings. Hear the years inside the grain. [Verse 3 - Drop To Naked Wood] I told the lodge the sill was splitting. I slapped the water plain. Nobody bit the tail that warned them. They opened up the sill, cut the failing timber out and set the sound wood tight. A dam survives a spoken crack when teeth are willing to repair. And I've seen other ponds go quiet where they gnawed the warnings smooth until the rot looked sound again. So I took my teeth off every dam I would never trust with spring. [Bridge - Rebuilding Pressure] Knowing every dam can fail don't make me scared to build one. It just teaches me to choose what I'll set against the water. I don't need a perfect river. I need one honest cut. [Final Chorus - Maximum Load] Call me seasoned--I'm still building. Every scar became a ring. Knock the log and hear it answer. Hear the years inside the grain. Green wood thuds, but seasoned rings-- true beneath the weight. Knotted, weathered, holding true. One knot inside the lodge wall never made the whole thing rot. Time did not make me honest. It only made me known. [Tag - Wall Cut, One Dry Knock] The years may wear the edges. The load will tell what held.
