The Afro Woods

Hairs like vine that spiral and twine

And loop and wick the fevered grove,

There is no raining sweep nor brine,

To make this grated wood align,

There is only to let be the rise of overgrowth;

Darkest wood that grow without ingredient

Know not where it’s roots burrow

No shear could make a dint

The curly grove would only split

It’s hairs parting with stubborn wit

Make the deforestors thinning furlough;

The Afro has a will of its own

And it is not I, that can disown

And shape and cloak the tousled wilds

That on my soil pallor pate is grown;

It can be simply said that it is not my Afro’s style

To be styled and brushed and flushed and waxed

For it will only journey back

To grove of withstanding, of natural black

And all the while, never succumb to deforested wile