|
memories of beauty pierce my grieved heart.
pastel lace of sapling dogwoods hovers mystically
above the profound greens, where slave-blood was spilt.
winding wisteria finds its way through joint and sinew
of a decaying shack that no one should have lived in.
why beauty amid such desolation?
and when I look beyond the window of my own rape,
wild red roses consume that piece of abandoned fence,
while our grand dogwood freely sprinkles its white blossoms.
acres of dense woods call to my chained heart,
“you are a child. climb! run! wander free!”
yet maybe some slave child allowed her heart to leap
at the blooming of the dogwood and wisteria,
as I tended the wild roses on the fence and
embraced the woods as feral friend in a lonely place.
even the wounded heart hopes in beauty. | 
