Words and music copyright 1998 by Steve Brooks

There's a river that's a winding
Through the asphalt and the grasses
On a passage to the city and the sea.
There's a skipper who's a-staring
Through a skinny pair of glasses
At the way that the river used to be.

He's thinking 'bout old Woody,
And the rails of the depression,
How there's nothing ever new beneath the sun.
He's running down the decades
And the blessings and the lessons
Of fighting in a war that's never won.

CHORUS
And you know he'll never know
Where all the flowers go,
But he had to plant them, each and every one.
He's a keeper of the thread,
He's a weaver of the web,
And you know, the weaver's work is never done.

He has forged a mighty weapon,
And he ain't afraid to use it
Or to make a stand where others call retreat.
It's the courage of conviction.
It's the truth that's in the music.
It's a spirit made for dancing in the street.

CHORUS

Now, up ahead, he's peering,
Where the muddy water's clearing,
And the harbor that he's nearing won't be long.
But he'll always be a weaver
Of the dreams of this old river,
Wherever people raise their voice in song.

CHORUS

When will they ever learn?
You know, the weaver's work is never done.