Each curl,
Each coil,
Each wayward strand, Whispers a chorus, “Yes, we made it, hand in hand.”
On nimble fingers, A dance of hope took flight,
Stray strands gathered
Like whispers of past fight.
The hold and movement, mend the mane in grips of grit.
By the interlacing of fingers tenacity found its place.
Mother, daughter, and her whole ghost,
A holy trinity,
Over, under, over
Mother, daughter and her whole ghost
