My dad is now a man of pine and cedar
His dead man’s box is a strange wooden thing
Witchwork, patchcraft, and sourcery
The remains of my daddy’s poverty
Missing the moans and deep down soul cries
Missing the secrets and well pruned lies
No stocks no bonds no earthly ties

It holds will and testament of his Nile colored hair
Schooltooth, sweethouse, and tobacco everywhere
I open it and hear the nocturnal echo of his turbulent mind
Resting but not set, sundown under a moon hungry tide
Resting but not silent, drum rum in a low Jamaica hum

The little box is peace
Smells like cedar and chocolate candy centers
Fall forward spring back and whistling winter
Gil Scott Heron’s lines and Miles Davis’ eyes
Redemption Bob and Afro Dizzy

Sing healing
Sing love glad tidings
This box is my dad freeing me on purpose yet somehow unintentionally
A strange wooden thing