On the white sand a lonely dark lock she stands <br />and clouds over head a rich fragrant smell. <br />More butter brown but darker to me she is yet <br />and the buckets I carry, <br />grow too heavy for her to lift so I Am. <br /> <br />Why can it not be for a tree that cracks the earth <br />like when a shovel moves the soil <br />and squatting over the bushes leaves a rich <br />something like a pealed banana <br />and it is a secret, I need never to touch it she does. <br /> <br /> <br />In my hand are the acorns I came across <br />I toss them up and down looking she is I am keen to show <br />but I remember from my childproof world <br />that the pine tree has different looking roots <br />why some can become lost in the coiling majestic oaks <br />climbing down over the lips to drift just over them once. <br /> <br />Singing under my breath I wonder what ever became <br />of my grandmothers whale bone button, yellow with age <br />when last I saw it the holes evenly spaced were the <br />woman even then, <br />thinking back to my nannies cold milk and her daughter. <br /> <br />My skin next to hers seamed more like butter pecan <br />than plain chocolate and vanilla, <br />and lemongrass upon which when we earned our iced tea. <br />Her buttocks know now and knowing I'm white would I mention.<br /><br />Is It Poetry<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-burden-of-being-white/
