There is a tree, by day,
That, at night, Has a shadow,
A hand huge and black,
With fingers long and black.
All through the dark,
Against the white man’s house,

In the little wind,
The black hand plucks and plucks
At the bricks.
The bricks are the color of blood
and very small.
Is it a black hand,
Or is it a shadow?

 

“Tenebris” by Angelina Weld Grimké

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You are like a pale purple flower
In the blue spring dusk

You are like a yellow star
Budding and blowing
In an apricot sky
You are like the beauty
Of a voice
Remembered after death

You are like thin, white petals
Falling

And

Floating

Down

Upon the white stilled hushing
Of my soul.

 

“Evanescence” by Angelina Weld Grimké

Image by Katarzyna Bruniewska-Gierczak