Awake before the sun rises;
Bleary-eyed still resolute
No thanks are offered for her toil.
As she nudges her brood from slumber,
Calloused hands stroke the hair of her babies.
To gentle voice and loving words they wake
Casting acknowledging smiles skyward.
The aromatic scent of cornbread wafts from afar,
Inviting even at this early hour, tickling their tiny noses.
Ritual plays itself out day after day, morning after morning,
She would have it no other way.
This brood, her pride and joy is her life, her love, all that she lives for.
Every wrinkle like a path through time,
Each hair of gray that adorns her head
Are worn with pride and concern for them.
Her destiny and birthright lay before her, born for the love of her Brave…
These are her legacy.
What greater gift could a mother leave this world than her children, her culture
And Mother earth just as she found her.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~