Silver linings,
Streak the cloud of every broken promise
December rains,
Reminiscing the sweetness of summer.
The harvest of our hopes,
freshly cropped
Out of soil the colour of blood,

Planting is a heavy thing,
The roots of family trees sinking
Deep into the underbelly
Of the earth.
I think of my mother’s stretch marks,
Silver linings,
soft like paintbrush strokes dipped in
The melanin of her skin,

Brown was the colour of the woman who
Birthed me,
Brown was the colour of the body
That housed me,
Brown was the colour of my grandmother’s hands
As she ploughed and watered her farmlands.

I am learning to unlearn the language of regret
I am learning to unlearn a lifetime of pain
Planting is a heavy thing,
But I am the seed of woman
I am the unbroken promise of love
They mold me.
They grow me.
They will never forsake me.

 

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels