The Child and His Wings

"O Mother, let me be
A bird upon the air;
Make me feathers bright
And strong wings to wear."
"O I shall grant you wings,"
Said the mother grave,
"Though it frightens me
One so small be so brave."
The mother worked all day
And all into the night
To give her restless child
The risky gift of flight.
"But what of feathers, child?
What color shall they be?
A bird's a pretty flower -
As lovely though more free."
And the sweet, small child
Thinking carefully,
Said, "Mother let me go
Into the world to see.
"I will go among the people
And see which color's best.
While I away, dear Mother,
You may take some rest."
The wise mother smiled
Thought it broke her heart
To see her wee babe
Make such a bold start.
"Yes, watch the people
As they all go by,"
Advised mother to child,
"And then ye may fly."
The wee one set off
With eyes all aglow,
Driven by impatient youth's
Endless need to know.
But the world can be cold
And harsh on young eyes.
The child saw much
Joy, woe, truth, and lies.
But what he saw mainly
Was the cold most glacial -
He saw how people are
When the issue is racial.
And when at long last
He returned to his home,
His mother feared ne'er more
Would he dare roam.
"What, child, you sit
So despondent to cry,
Recall you not dreams
You once had to fly?
"What of your wings
And their plumage bright?
What color chose you, tell
So I may make them aright."
The child frowned then
And shook his small head.
"Mother, my wings now
Fill me with dread.
"I fear to become any
One color or shade
When I see that all color
Ever brings is blind hate.
"So I'll shun my wings, mother,
Unless you can make
Miraculous feathers
That no race can take."
And the mother, who grieved
To see her child's tears
Decided she must solve
The riddle of her dear.
She labored all ev'en,
Until early morn,
And then she rested
As when he was born.
"Here, sweet, come and see
What I've pulled together
For you - these wings still fly
And no pain from the feathers.
"See," she did say as
She showed him his gift,
"They are of all colors
thus they solve the rift."
And so he did see
As his mother did hope,
Wings of many colors
Bound all by one rope.
"The colors belong to all
The peoples you saw,
And the rope binding them
Is the divine law.
"People may hate, child,
For reasons you can't ken,
But we are still all human
When it comes to the end."
And the child did laugh
In the early day's light;
He threw on his wings
And with a shout, took flight.
So remember the mother
When ye are as sad
And despairing that people
Are racially mad.
For her story holds true
As her son's wings in the breeze,
That all colors paint
Our means to be free.