Anna, tall, sturdy, brown from years in the sun,
guardian of my hopes and dreams,
turning the soil her life's work,
the promise in the seeds and twigs her religion.
Child of her child, I'd follow in her steps
from morning to day's end, when,
her voice coarse with age and cigarettes,
yet soft with hope,
she'd take me in her arms and sing.
No comments:
Post a Comment