The Art of Braiding

It is one thing to be woven as a child,

to be a beautiful bead on the long braid of

ancestors who smile benevolently,

through the centuries 

on my perfect self—

sitting quietly in an airy room of possibility,

windows open to the soft breeze of potential.

It is quite another thing to be plaited

with that brisk twisting motion

perfected by generations of mothers

laboring intently over squirming daughters. 

Now I am one small tuck of a generation,

turning precisely in time to say goodbye

to perfect grands and greats

walking serenely across an airy plain.

They also turn,

moving into a future I will never see,

which carries yet some

broken, golden strand of me.

                               Rhonda Palmer