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Poem

She leaves footprints –
on the wet concrete of blinded doubts,
For she has carved lives - -
like graven images on the palms of her hands,
There is substance in her eyes,
fire in her soul,
zest in her spirit,
And her passion? –
She is anchor, rudder and dock, sail and compass,
Storms are her vanquished
for she kindles hope to enliven her faith,
Wars and Victories are her poems –
inked with blood, sweat and tears,
For she flames her faith –
with the winged cherubim and seraphim of prayers,
And in her steadfast stride,
barely noticeable are her hurts and pain,
She is wife and mother,
teacher and mentor,
support and pillar,
Give her a reason or none at all,
she is battle, she is warrior,
the Lord her Banner.
This fourth day of the second month –
she still writes her walk and talk,
With testimonies –
of unrelentless dauntlessness and dare,
She is that indomitable woman –
true to her name,
‘Nurturer and protector’ – Isadora

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