A wayward seed drifts from home
Captive for a solemn winter’s night.
It emerges cautiously, begins to roam,
Vexed and bewitched by an inconstant light.
It finds solace in an array of black stones
Strewn far and wide along an open dirt path.
Each new step infuses its bones
With the fortitude of a carpenter’s lath.
The eyes awaken. Hearts blossom near.
A faint voice beckons a song.
The mountains lift their veils, a stalk appears.
Rivers crest. We belong.
Home is where this tree now crops,
Where leaflets take flight on most days.
Where seeds kiss the brow of golden mountaintops,
While peace visits for a time, then stays.
Art: “Madiba Mandela”
Synthia St. James