It is strands of soft short curls that stretch
And pull back down and stay down
These strands form a frame for my face
They trace me back to my clan, tribe, race
These strands tell a story of the hot sun
That touches my skin with an embrace
It is this weather that heats up and rolls
Up every strand and under the sun bake
These strands do not pull away and go far
They are humbled by the warmth so they sit
As the wool from sheep, it does not move
Strong and fixed in its position it remains
Not blown by the wind, not shaken at all
It stays as it is, steady and ready as a
Covering fit for the queens under the sun
But as you move up north where winds
Blow with snow and the sun stays in hiding
The strands flee from the scalp, each one
Going its own direction, moving, stretching
Like the wings of an eagle, they scatter
Free-flowing, going, running, racing down.