Tiny Dancer


Padding across the bare wooden floor on tiny feet,
your toothless grin melts my heart.
You still need to hold on to one of my fingers
but your little body struts around
like a proud baby peacock.
When the music begins, you start swinging your arms
and bobbing your perfectly shaped head with its crop
of black curls growing like a permed Mohawk.
You move even faster when you hear the beat of
the drums. They connect you to the spirits of your
African ancestors, the land in which your father was born.
Mixed with the Irish blood given to you by your mother,
you are sensitive to the sound of drums and have the
heart and soul of a dancer.
First you crawled and today you are learning to walk.
But soon enough you will learn to dance.
So dance on my tiny dancer,
dance on.

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This Poems Story

This poem describes the movements made by my small grand daughter when she was just learning how to walk. Her father was born in Kenya and her mother here in the US. The painting is by my daughter.