A Root's Grave Is Above Ground

Each year my hands look more like my father's
Scars of a yesterday, but palms up to tomorrows

Knuckles dug in rusted earth to loose the saplings
Follow hollows to the trunks and wrap my arms around the sorrow

And the seeds that I will sow slow as the earth turns will be
The snares that strip the ankles, trip to hide me from the half-truths
The garden, hard and soft, holding me, older than the oak trees

And Mama didn't raise no fool

Each year my feet look more like my mother's
Heels feel for days before and toes hold to the next end
Pounding out the sounds of freedom, loud and out the quicksand
Kicking down the rocks to talk the language of the wetlands

And the paths I will travel spring up ringing with their own voice
Rolling over stones and soles, fast awake, in-tune
Rising from the dust to trust themselves with their own noise

And Mama didn't raise no fool

Each year our eyes are looking more like someone else's
Taking in those things they string together through distraction

We burn what we learned in urns to piece together action
Or mistake a greater dose of hope for peace and satisfaction

And I sustain the pain and shame of the slings and the arrows
Launched from the mouths of folks that I once thought I knew

Yes, I've known love, but not how to love in spite of these blows
So I keep on and hope I learn to

For now?
Course I can hear 'em, but I can't listen
To folks who have the curse of sight without the gift of vision
They're deep as summer puddles, just as easy to see through

And Mama didn't raise no fool
And Mama didn't raise no fool