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Women kneel before the stream
and rub out dust, soil stains,
they rub out long days of effort
in one choral stroke.
Blue stream, blue dresses, blue banging
of washboards, echoing
like the footsteps of a giant.
there are hours so blue
in ocean-salty minds.
There are terrible
blue-whale daydreams of downpour
and stormy isolation.
When the blue hours start to spill,
slip on your oldest nightgown,
slip on the silken words
of a lullaby. Here,
sink with me for a while.
They said ‘blue’ was of the world of the artificial.
‘Reserved for the unnatural’, they said.
Blue like the veins rushing
through my left arm?
The blue scattered in the air,
when a peacock sheds its coat?
To them I say,