You Too Will Know Me

sepia

My parents love in sepia

a thing brewed from the slow decay of a new sprout,

seasoned and mature enough to have a feeling named after it;

teaching me that decay is not always synonymous to rot—

only a point on the growth curve.

Because this brown has seen tender and folded,

this brown has been foolish and free,

this brown has feigned sufficiency to make way for enough;

this brown with its share of pain and scars,

knows how to love the glow out of any sun.

Ama Asantewa Diaka