In this place there are those,
Whose tanned faces and
Wind burnt cheeks tell
The beginning of a tale,
A tale supported by the
Rough, leathery hands that
Know nothing of moisturizers and lotion,
Let alone a manicure.
The tanned ones are here now,
Knocking at your door,
Looking at you with quiet creased faces,
Waiting for you to speak that one word,
That simple acknowledgment of existence.
Patience is the greatest virtue of these
Who wait, an unrelenting presence that
Will pierce the veil of indifference
So that all will be seen and greeted with respect.
Though there may be no commonality
Of language, there is one of blood,
There is one of Hope and Fear,
There is one of Mother and Father,
There is one of rhythmic music and dance,
There is one of patience.
What is it that you are waiting to say?