Iron & Wine and Funeral Songs

The Iron & Wine concert last Friday was a great show. As I mentioned in the previous post, the concert renewed my love of this band. Sam Beam's lyrics are simply amazing, when you really take the time to listen to them. That is probably why I love so many of the songs. Every time I listen, I find something new to ponder in the poetic lyrics.

At the concert they did almost every song I would want to hear, even Woman King, which is one of my favorites. My other favorite song, which unfortunately they didn't do, is Passing Afternoon. If I had the opportunity to chose the one song that would be played at my funeral, Passing Afternoon would be the song. There are several others that I would pick if more than one were needed, such as something by Lizzie West (Prayer is the obvious choice, but I think I'd go for Holy Road instead), Heavenly Day by Patty Griffin, and something upbeat, but if I really could only pick one song, Passing Afternoon would be it.

Here are the lyrics:

There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from the piles of fallen leaves

There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children until she lets them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds

There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling around the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the window closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone