The Other Arc

The month of black history is fields of grass, plateaus and plains-steep cliffs and rugged mountains. A screenshot of pictures hanging-clanking-rotating, (swiveling up and down), a perceivable terrain. Lofty trees are landmarks for shrubs-prickly plants, wildflowers- and the exotic. South deep sunsets are silhouettes on the face of cactus trees-the desert longs for rainy days and immortality. Chimes in the wind sing a foreign song-chanting word of autonomy- the days are coming for toiling the land and planting the seeds of many.

The second of twelve calendar months is the history of many foundations, the soil of the land and the partial strength of a nation. Gather the harvest in the glare of the light; remove the stalk before the dusk turns into night. Sow the seeds under damp cloths of cotton; lay them down at the crest of the summit. The eastern sunrise brings a soft and gentle mist, a slippery fog slides over bedrock of gravels. This is the place of deeply buried treasures; this is the place of great discoveries, metal for ironing combs, invigorating plants, peanuts for energy and tasty butter. On the breakfast table a hymn is born to the chorus of sweet potatoes growing in a patch of weeds.

Twenty-eight days of frigid winter and the ashes of burnt coals-dampens the grounds of old picture frames. Smokehouses, latrines, and the rambles of shanties in tenement yards, capture the last pics of jars of rains, moving swiftly across acres and plots of settled land in silent pain. The slips of roots appear suddenly in a pot of lilies, a limb hangs on the porch crouching to the lowest part of the boundary, stems tilting to the foot of hills-bulbs creeping out of curiosity in a place of lasting memories.

Forever fastened and strapped in a memoir of vineyards and decorative gardens. The ancestral home of the latter, a familiar place in the narratives of collective gatherings and storytelling. The month of black history is the mysterious otherness, the cracking noise of boughs breaking, the gusting wind dancing-nature’s best and one of finest re-praised-reclaimed. The sunrises on the east side of the ghetto and the southern part of urban cities. Countless rainbows pass over rural towns and skips across a busy country.

?Awake and go forth youths and elders, explore the grounds, the rocks are strong, the hills are mighty, and the earth is plentiful. Plant today, reap tomorrow, the roots is the legacy, the culture is the heritage of seeds gifted, and the limbs and branches are of the ancestry. Many moons lie above the horizon, many sons and many daughters. "Return to the summit at first light-glance at the view at first sight-and marvel at the history on site".

FSW-VCG

02/11/21

?Copyright2021- Black History Month a Contribution to This Ground-This Rock

Reposted 01/ 25/25