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Island of Souls
I journey to the center of you –
the island queen
with nimble fingers
creating Saban Lace.
I seek the hidden mysteries
of your smile –
your blue-black hair
coiffed just so –
the way you read
The Daily Word
in your speckled, red wool chair.
I travel to the source of ancestors –
to this island home
you left for a bigger island at age 11.
Not knowing how to swim,
you left by boat –
forging ahead
with only your embroidery skills
and strength of intent.
At 18, you left for a new land.
I journey to the center of you –
the island queen
with nimble fingers
creating Saban Lace.
I seek the hidden mysteries
of your smile –
your blue-black hair
coiffed just so –
the way you read
The Daily Word
in your speckled, red wool chair.
I travel to the source of ancestors –
to this island home
you left for a bigger island at age 11.
Not knowing how to swim,
you left by boat –
forging ahead
with only your embroidery skills
and strength of intent.
At 18, you left for a new land.
One-by-one, you
brought them –
brothers and sisters
carried across the vast sea.
Your hands –
instruments of freedom.
I journey back to that day
you left all that was known
to you –
Saba spice,
sweet Malta,
the top of the volcano,
and the village at the bottom.
It is at the crossroads
of leavings and beginnings,
that I find my source.
I would like to think
it is you.
You are my black stone courage –
my onyx strength –
my Saba Rose pride.
Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014
brothers and sisters
carried across the vast sea.
Your hands –
instruments of freedom.
I journey back to that day
you left all that was known
to you –
Saba spice,
sweet Malta,
the top of the volcano,
and the village at the bottom.
It is at the crossroads
of leavings and beginnings,
that I find my source.
I would like to think
it is you.
You are my black stone courage –
my onyx strength –
my Saba Rose pride.
Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014
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