Umlando Fountain: a Poem for Black History Month

lies quietly, ancient, intelligent

beneath the bright white snow,

cold and sparkling ubiquitous.

Dripping icicles and clumps of snow that fall from trees

here and there give voice to the distant sun,

as fat little songbirds

know the songs of their ancestors.

The stench of history, of live bodies' sweat and blood,

of rusty chains, salty tears, and sugar

stinging veins, thick on tongues,

sleeps in frozen sterility

until the stories are retold, naturally each year

of illegal literacy, broomstick

weddings, amazing grace,

and following the drinking gourd;

of cotton and diamonds, gospel churches and the Blues,

laws and taboos, discrimination and

assimilation, war,

silence, fear, shame, pride, hate and love...

May the stories keep flowing in a symphony

of rivulets to one shining present

pressing towards an ocean

of infinite understanding.

Swing low, sweet chariot. A cold wind takes all feeling

from the tips of me, fingers, nose and toes,

but however it blows,

there is Africa in my heart.