Hands
Years ago, men stood against the old bank on Main Street. On warm, sunny days I casually watched as they visited. Their eyes each told a story— a story of hardships. A story of struggles. A story of survival. A …
Poetry
Poetry
Poetry
Poetry
The Braid
I am made of hundreds of strands of hair. Each strand resilient, beautiful, unique. Each strand the colors of the earth. Each strand illuminated by the sun. Each strand cleansed by the rain. Each strand shaken by the wind. Like …