Misty hair dressed by the wind,
your skirt of life girds plenty hills.
A shoulder bare shows glowing skin,
its smoke a sign of fire within.
Mother to so many children;
feeding from one bowl, one table;
work speak live thrive, as one.
Lingering past so present still,
viscous resin sweet to some.
Good hope, good luck, come by.
Flowers grace fine bush forever,
where buck meets whale meets bird meets man.
The leopard’s print a hint in sand,
lest we forget the past at hand.
On weekday mornings, when Michael is out of town, I drive all three kids to school. This leads me all the way around Table Mountain; the views are a treat and I actually enjoy slow traffic; sleepy kids in the back letting my mind wander.