Bemidji Blues

Shadows bluing the snow, the pines’ and mine,

bear the cast of a kestrel’s blue-gray crown

I note as I find my way about this town.

Blues here more likely the Nordic-eyes kind

than the blue-black of some Black folk back home.

Here so many lakes reflect the sky’s blue dome;

some summer days skimmed-milk blue tints windblown

whitecaps. Blue’s an adjective, verb, and noun,

and the color of the world when I pine

because she’s gone leaving too much wine and time.

Blue shadows on the snow, mine and the pines’.

For a tall man, blue ox, and now me, home

is Bemidji, though the blues here around

more the cast of a kestrel’s blue-gray crown

than the blue-black of my cousins back home.