Did you hear about the rose
that bloomed in Harlem-
through concrete cracks, through chaos,
through prayers gone thin in steam?
A winter rose
shouldn’t bloom in this blaze-
but you, baby girl, unfold anyway.
Concrete beneath you,
sirens above,
a million ghosts whispering tough love.
You glide past bodegas and busted swings,
past aunties hollering from painted stoops,
past brothers pacing—palms tight with truth.
I watch your curls bounce down One-One-Four,
your laugh a lavender miracle,
soft, sure,
still surviving-
thriving-
in a garden that forgets to welcome
delicate things.
Still, I worry-
that the city might carve its name
into your softness
before you know
you are sacred.
That the sidewalk might swallow you
before you burst.
But Wynter,
you are no damsel,
no flower waiting for rescue.
You are named for frost,
raised in fire,
rooted in rhythms older than this street.
You rise with sunlight,
spin storms into dance,
and grow wild-
like you’ve always known
you could.
Categories:
wynter, beauty, child, daughter, identity,
Form: Free verse
Memories
It's about all that you have,
All that you had,
And that you will soon have again.
It's about all that you don't have,
All that you can't have,
And will never have.
It's about what you have had,
All that is gone,
And that you'll never have again.
Memories are made to last forever,
To cherish for a lifetime.
Letting go is having the courage
to accept change and the strength to keep moving.
In actuality; It's the thought that counts,
The action to “Git R Done,”
And the heart to “Keep R Alive,”
And the consistency to “Keep R Going!”
~By Wynter Hudson
Categories:
wynter, life
Form: Free verse