Wednesday, March 30, 2011

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


  1. Is this new? This must surely be one of your very best poems to date! Simply perfect and wonderful. Thank you again.

  2. Isn't April Poetry Month? I suppose it is too late to submit this. I wonder who has the job of selecting the poems... This is really a beautiful poem.

    Maybe I will boycott Poetry Month until they include at least one of your poems. Boycotts don't seem to be working so well... so I will just send this poem to Knopf. Much more positive...