Apples come in different shapes.
They hide behind their colours too.
Each one distinct and yet alike,
create a symphony that brings delight.
Mangos I have found
salute this custom so profound.
They all hang high up in a tree,
when eaten, have such individuality.
And then of course there is the face.
We all have one – I think it’s grace!
Yet how it is I fathom not,
With just a smile – derail my thought!
And what about that sense of mirth,
It crops up with such violent birth.
It’s spasm’s quivers are quite unique.
Yet all enjoy its invasive tweak.
When I surprise a latin scamp,
I am amazed at backwoods imps,
they look at me from neath the table
cause I have skin that’s white not sable!
Women when in violence raised,
can see with dread these men who haze.
Yet both alike need someone kind,
to heal the wound they’ve been consigned.
Difference is a gift most sage,
It’s grace invites to end the rage.
Cause when I feel discovery’s bliss,
Love dances out and plants a kiss!
Author – Bill Tidsbury