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talking to myself

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She was short, under five feet tall,

Yet for all of that she was a fire cracker, full of life, spunk and anger,

With words that would cause a sailors ears to go red,

Flowed like a river from her mouth,

Her voice sharp like a whip, demanding to be heard at all cost.

Yes she was a fighter, a pit bull in a very small body,

Her hair curly, grey with the texture of cotton,

Two stubby pig tails on the side of her little head,

Yet it fit her this strange woman, whom I found beautiful.

Her skin darkest black….. Black is beautiful so says the Song of Songs,

This I have found to be true.

(I am not white, I am pink, hence my love of skin darker,

Sun worthy, noble, gleaming in the sun,

While I merely cringe, burn and peel, turning lobster red.)

Her eyes wide, watching everything, not smiling

Yet she reached out and shook my hand as I walked by,

Looking me right in the eye along with her strong grip.

The staff loved her this I can see,

People with a lot of chi are loved or at least admired by others,

No she will not go gently into the dark night,

She will fight, and claw for her life,

Such is her nature this strange beautiful woman,

Impossible to ignore,

A warrior in a small woman’s body.

It is her right to be the way she is,

Her own way of giving glory to God.

Some people are quiet, gentle,

These have their own kind of strength,

None better than the other,

Such is their right, to be who they are,


Loved and cared for,

Gifts from God.

The more difficult teachers unappreciated

In the very difficulty in caring for them.

Each a work of art, unique, here only once,

Rough or fine, each truly a masterpiece,

Even if hidden from many.

Perhaps that is why they are here, the difficult ones

To make those who take care of them to look deeper,

Stretch, grow, which is often painful,

The fruit unsurpassed.

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