When I return,
I'm running.
Running home,
I'm running.

Home to where the tan sand lays,
beaten by the waves that just want
        to stay.
Home to where we sail
till Lawson becomes a snail,

so small and so unnoticed,
like the little town covered in tourists.
Boston to my right,
and Gloucester in sight.

We tell stories around the flames,
put the passing train in shame.
Looking up at the floating embers
as they become stars to remember.

Lighting up the harbor, rock by rock,
keep the candle going with all your
        luck.
The Luminaria will make you gasp,
the little town is hard to grasp.

So little with so much beauty,
my little town is an opportunity.
Art by hand
and art by land.

When I return,
I'm running.
Running home,
I'm running.