from shards scatter'd 'round from a shatter'd wedding pot holding pieces of honeymoon dreams, were four tiny faces i'd almost forgot from a far more simpler scheme.

the ornate handle bond ’d firm stood firm to gravity’s shove; perhaps it was a symbol yet of nation's ailing love.

while gathering the fragments that were whole the night before, i stood eye to eye with glimpse of wee angels
sending smiles to me up from the floor.

These were very special children in the borough where we chose to stay. Their skin like the pot was of alabaster white. . . and my family’s. . . like chocolate clay

i recall early days back when
we enter'd this 'hood, select’d by God on a nice weekend drive. . .  this all-white addition: dubb'd Burlington Woods--when we mov'd there some whites swore they'd curl up and die.

some forc'd cheeky grins from a distance, but their progeny, they didn't fear, and four of those angels smil’d back at me--they knew brown skin was nothing to fear.

they never thought what others would think when we mov’d here in ‘79
and thinking of this i could not disregard that old pot with those faces divine. . . .

so i pick’d up the bits erstwhile home to those smiles and examin’d the broken remains, for that pot is the same as black history; childlike hope is restor’d  through old pains.

© 2006 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserv’d