[A tribute to the writer’s first tool.]
Weft and waft of craft
silky locks, the one different from the other
until they copulate in perfect stretch,
the one flying over the other
the other passing under the one
the one passing under the other
the other flying over the one
to form a network
a neat plait.
Little for taste
Much for waste.
the first and last ingredient of cooking
‘Fcourse, stupid question.
Oh, well, yummy all the same!
the whiney tremolo of violins
that accompany the rap-pa-pap of the timpani
that blend in the sustained ring of the piano
right after the spurting hums of the guitar
that cues in the soprano
all in perfect harmony
eliciting sweet sense.
Like that horse I once saw
brown and gallant; chivalrous
Like those times I see the mountain dip into valley…
…rise onto mount
dip into vale yet again
in solid wavy motions.
…Like my queen on the day I met her
swinging her arms in slow nyanga, passing
throwing her head about
a little to the here
a little to the there
I caught her eye, she held mine
my soul drawn in
to a place where only grace and beauty live.