By May   

Descendants of the Diaspora

She was young

and bright
and beautiful, once.

But age and life
wore her down.

Even saplings can grow twisted roots.
The branches of our family tree

bore fruit still. 

Some sweet, some sour.

The salt of the sea

flows within me.

My people are from cold islands,

and warm peninsulas.

The branches of my family tree

make up my sister and me. 

We have gnarled roots

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem