Cider

Of earthen gold the souls of trees
Apples grown stout by ocean breeze
Orbs of red so deep a hue
Our union they were witness to
Now they lie in ferment deep
For in our bed a baby sleeps

Hands that hold turn the press
Young and old those that we love best
Branches bare and the cellar waits
Winters chill will not hesitate
These treeless souls are bound to sleep
What earth has wrought the earth will keep

Hands that hold turn the press
Young and old those that we love best
What once was lost is made a new
Our babies dreams full of me and you
Round and round we circle down
Liquid gold pours without a sound