The Plantation house still stands,
old and broken, the flowers misunderstand.
They once lined its walk, to create
conversations upon the porch, to debate.
The left of an open door,
a small room beckons, pacifiable as before.
A black woman in a long
cotton dress breaks into a temperate song.
In clothing of a house slave,
her chair rocks blowing fine the dust from the grave.
Years of want, motion awake,
the children’s laughter silent, smiles at stake.
Memory, small tiny prints,
along the old wood floor as the bright sun tints.
A smile on the woman’s face,
recalls the joining of hands and past embrace.
