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RUBY

With the same black as your hair,
Your face was shadowed,
angled, thin.
Your hands, I'll bet,
were not so clean and smooth
as those I now watch writing.
Malaria stranded
and two children clinging to your childish breast .
from what old Cherokee magic
did you draw the will to fight?
They tell me how you built,
how you conquered . . .
If your blood runs through me,
I need it now.

Mia Whittle

SEASONAL

As our lives stem far from home
The seasons seem to change.
I'm no longer autumn
With it's multi-colored moods,
But a stark, bleak winter
Without the April thaw.
You're no longer spring
With it's buoyant, breezy ways,
But a smoldering, rainless summer
Forever desiring the sun.

Laura King

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