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Freedom
March 25, 2015
She tiptoed with stained white shoes of perfection, arrested by the thick shade of hot Georgia suns.
Her cries flamed on the candle of the moon.
Burning in the bread of night,
Disguising the black with a shadow on the white.
Freedom.
She now stands with murky red-eyes
Held tight in the doughy palm of empty air.
So achingly tender.
She squeezed past the barely slackened grip of dusk
like the whip in the late morning.
© Catherine M., Bronx, NY
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This poem is a slave's struggle to freedom