With red clay between my toes,and the sun setting over my head,the ghost of my mother blows in,riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord,riding on a honeysuckle breeze. - Brenda Sutton Rose
A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. - Brenda Sutton Rose
My mother’s dress bears the stains of her life:blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk;She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow;Its brilliance nearly blinds me. - Brenda Sutton Rose
As I string, a swift rhythm is played out with my hands, a cadence known only to those who have strung tobacco. To many of the poor workers, the meter and rhythm of stringing tobacco is the only poetry they’ve ever known. - Brenda Sutton Rose
I could go to a dozen houses, scrape away the dirt, and find his footprints, but my own prints evaporated before I ever looked back. - Brenda Sutton Rose
Songs. Books. Poetry. Paintings. These things reveal truth. I believe lies and truth are tangled together. - Brenda Sutton Rose