They Are Not Called Dreadlocks

I love the locks that hang so there In reddish ropes like Samson’s strength Other adornments can’t compare Loosely touching his lower back length the glorious raiment that’s his hair I run my fingers through the mane Feeling the spirit of softness Nothing here of dread remains As to my lips the sweetness Each touch like summer rain My love is but a tower of might His legs are pillows of steel His hair is long and pure delight An essence rare to feel Black with creeping spectrum white How much I love his countenance The wisdom that is he His locks grow strong with maintenance There is so much more to see Blessed daily with God's radiance 09/22/2021 'Quintain (Sicilian)' Poetry Contest Emile Pinet, Sponsor