by Bruce Morton
You do not have to be blind to see That blue is the color of nothing, The tincture of imagination. The blue sky is not blue nor are Lakes, rivers, and not the moon. The songs are the hue of light shattering, Shards scattering the color of throbbing Balls in the throes of pain and lust Codified by Sunday laws of privation; Tempered by Monday prayers for redemption. They be red-clay songs rooted in mud and dust And cost. They are not seen. They are not Even heard. They are felt, imbued with dolor, Clear, bound in chords of experience hummed, Strummed, sung by Blind Blake, Blind Boy Fuller, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie Johnson, Blind Willie McTell, the Reverend Gary Davis. Each with a vision colored By fast living or slow dying, stories told Indigo steeped in leaves of woad.