Wednesday’s Child

i’m a wednesday’s child
born on ruination day
to a preacher man who’s better than
he took to the grave
when he left his garden
he caught a cold in his blood
grief comes in many colors
and so does love

grandaddy shot his self
straight in the head
but the bullet didn’t get him
bigotry killed him dead
and i say is this my story
is this my problem with rage
am i making too much of it
or am i turning the page?

well it is what it is
and it ain’t what it ain’t

grandma lives alone now
in the middle of a cotton field
where deep in the darkness
every star in heaven’s revealed
she tells me light and lonely
tread a narrow line
that’s why even the sun
can’t hold its head up all the time

mama gave me a book
about a small feathered seed
whose destiny it was
to ride the spirit breeze
and the wind was to decide
where she rested and took root
am I the fallen seed
am I the spirit fruit?

well it is what it is
and it ain’t what it ain’t