Black folk sing
as if grief is just the misfortunate
sister of joy. Grief
is quick-footed and ready to settle in
but joy will come limping after her
and will surely get here
some day,
some day.
Black folk sing
as if grief is just the misfortunate
sister of joy. Grief
is quick-footed and ready to settle in
but joy will come limping after her
and will surely get here
some day,
some day.
Cute poem, sweetie. (I know this reply will make you cringe a little).
I LOVE the rhythm of the poem, I mean, the consonants in it really stand out somehow. It is obvious when you read it aloud. It sounds like a song.I love it, and also the ending. I love your toe, too.
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