Thursday, May 17, 2012

Another year with Maty Bombay

Born in the red dust of Ouagadougou,
Far from the land her father called home;
Farther still from where the boy she'd love
Even then endured the tragic-joyous
Morph to manhood;

The woman in Ouaga whom God had blessed,
With foresight called her "American girl,"
Knowing she was bound toward
The rain-washed valley where he was born,
To love him there;

She brought her quiet wisdom and her love
And salvation he believes beyond
The power even of his bookish gods--
Shakespeare, Hemingway, Tolkien, Steinbeck--
To ever describe;

Just her being makes me cry
Because I cannot do it justice;

Happy birthday, Maty Bombay!

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