It's Going To Be Alright Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson

She combs my hair
in loose strokes
as the cats warm themselves
by fire, to touch her skin
turns embers gold.

Dad drinks his coffee, black, cold
long stories still untold
the gray root of his hair
growing, unfold

it's going to be alright

Sunflowers catapult into the night
settle sun seeds in the yard
the pinwheel subsides, the pottery spins
of my mother's hands working hard

her clay spoon caught
by both grandmother's hands
kneading out the rising meal
smelling potatoes as they peel

it's going to be alright

the dishes clatter, in the soapy air
black-white woman's prints
of old platter ware
silver patterned steel ingrained

the wrinkles hold pinched bread
held by many hands
wheat, onion, beets of the land

as stones tossed out in the lake
the roots grab the soil and take
as fish boil, the ice melts

there's always time to wait
for every season so bright
everything is going to be alright.