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The blues
rolls its mournful, graveled voice,
there in the dust of Delta ways,
there on a’ old board porch reachin’
through time’s forever.
In a drowsy land as low and dark
as blues itself,
a moan crawls slow
in its roll
onto summer’s heavy breath.
A blue voice weaves,
and twines
through locust drone.
A blue voice floats
like smoke summoned to the river’s edge,
then nuzzles thick
into the father of rivers mighty mud.
A singer sways,
and groans,
and births a thousand years into
a song,
a thousand tears
into blue.
Wailin’
is the voice that yearns,
alone
in its night of thickening heat
and glistening sweat
on a’ old board porch in the Delta.
Sing, blues,
sing,
and show all God’s children how to cry.
I say,
Sing, blues, and let your trouble song
float up
up high to Heaven’s porch
on the banks of Sinless Sea.
Moan to the Father of Rivers,
and let Him hear your heart birthing
a thousand tears.
Blues.
Let your blues weave with the hue of Heaven
shining through,
shining through God’s buzz of star song.
The Father of Rivers embraces the blues,
when it carries you.
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