They Are Not Called Dreadlocks
I love the locks that hang so there
In reddish ropes like Samson’s strength
Other adornments can’t compare
Loosely touching his lower back length
the glorious raiment that’s his hair
I run my fingers through the mane
Feeling the spirit of softness
Nothing here of dread remains
As to my lips the sweetness
Each touch like summer rain
My love is but a tower of might
His legs are pillows of steel
His hair is long and pure delight
An essence rare to feel
Black with creeping spectrum white
How much I love his countenance
The wisdom that is he
His locks grow strong with maintenance
There is so much more to see
Blessed daily with God's radiance
09/22/2021
'Quintain (Sicilian)' Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet, Sponsor
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