She walked, head held high
like a servant who pilfered a sweetcake
from the grouchy old cook
(who ruled her kingdom with iron,
a slave who fancied herself sovereign).
She took their glances,
their sneers, their horror
and fashioned it with cake and hope,
and bullheaded faith
To make flower out of flour,
and freedom out of fashion,
and roses out of ruins.
Attacking the barrier with faces,
we dent, crack, and bust it.
We see from our side
Progress! Advancement, baby steps.
Them? We are
Cracked, obscured, broken
Forgotten…
But the cracks run ragged, the breaks flow deeper,
and freedom’s whisper is strong
and Insistent.
I dip, low…
Leaning in over these words like
She moves over her cello.
My mind moves busy,
back and forth,
a bow vibrating
over those words,
seeking for
Resonance and Mystery
latent within
waiting poised,
ready for release from
just the right
strike, touch, draw.
There! Sound it so, clarion
and my words will
Sing in your soul like
her music o’erwhelms mine.
Charissa's Grace Notes 
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