She combs my hair
in loose strokes
as the cats warm themselves
by fire, to touch her skin
turns embers gold.
Dad drinks his coffee, black, cold
long stories still untold
the gray root of his hair
growing, unfold
it's going to be alright
Sunflowers catapult into the night
settle sun seeds in the yard
the pinwheel subsides, the pottery spins
of my mother's hands working hard
her clay spoon caught
by both grandmother's hands
kneading out the rising meal
smelling potatoes as they peel
it's going to be alright
the dishes clatter, in the soapy air
black-white woman's prints
of old platter ware
silver patterned steel ingrained
the wrinkles hold pinched bread
held by many hands
wheat, onion, beets of the land
as stones tossed out in the lake
the roots grab the soil and take
as fish boil, the ice melts
there's always time to wait
for every season so bright
everything is going to be alright.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
rhythm is very fine..interesting write here..