The women of Detroit are a regal, scrappy bunch.
Anywhere else why would reign as
Celebrated leaders of parliament–
Well-loved by nations via
Parades on their birthdays and their faces on
We would see them in our newspapers,
Pray for them in church.
The potential has been sucker-punched away, though, by the brass knuckles of Lady poverty.
Women with hearts as big as Lake Superior–love deep enough to cover the world.
Women with beauty as commanding as the Milky Way between the branches of the pines–to see it you must look, but, when you do–it’s too much to even fathom.
Women with the generosity of the sunset over the Detroit River: lavish, breath-taking, profound.
Grace they have.
What privilege, what honor–queens, in our own backyard…Praises unsung. Beauty unnoticed. Potential unrecognized.
I cry over this, sometimes, alone, tell it to the
Queen Anne’s lace/ wildflowers
That bless our streets–demanding more beauty into a place the world has already declared
Maybe it is exactly as heaven would ordain
And God has placed his strongest
Those willing to see hope.
Those willing to speak truth.
Those willing to bless, to give, to uplift, to fight, to serve.
Our royalty, in old, secondhand dresses.
Beautiful. Bold. Strong.