Rosabella

On my drive home yesterday I pulled off of 81 North, into Dunmore, to visit two sisters I used to spend alot of time with when I was younger. I told Ella, on our drive, that these two ladies may be as close to fairies as she'll ever get. In saying this, I guess I created quite a mystique but I wasn't at all off course. I met them years ago in the back room of a bar where our friends used to play. That's how we spent most of our nights then. In that crazy turmoil of youth and identity and a buffet style of spirituality, dance was my main source of prayer and it served me well. Those I danced with were a part of my congegration. Nights were holy in the smoky back rooms.

It's been years since I've seen them. I got in touch via email when they ran into a good friend of mine at one of the band's reunions. We set up a time to meet on my trip home.

The older of the two, an incredible artist ended up marrying the drummer, had two children, made their best go of the marriage and then decided to let it go after many years. She moved back to the area, put herself through school, bought a house and, out of the blue, met a man from South Africa and fell in love. During my visit, I got to meet their beautiful daughter, Rosabella. The following poem is about this sweet girl.

Rosey rises,

sleepy eyed,

Africa in her blood.

Her mama's got the magic of the cosmos

where her paintbrush meets the canvas

and her auntie must have been dropped

from the branches of some pixie's family tree.

I'd forgotten how deeply her eyes hold you

from one thought to another.

Rosey,

all in red,

curious and wordless,

watchful and walking.

Rosey

Rosey McNosey

wondering

wondering

all the world about her.

Two continents for lineage.

Old mine shafts beneath her toes

and an African grandma

in the place where her imagination goes.

Rosey rises,

sleepy eyed,

sparkling mama in her heart

and Africa in her blood.