by Deborah Lloyd
A single salty teardrop.
A fragment of life.
Tiptoes down a cheek
Soft and refined
Like some divine peach unknown.
To all those who fail to see
Beyond the blinkers of their prejudice.
The conditioning of their youth
Their ignorance of all that they do not understand.
For this peach
Is not a peach of pastel shades.
Not of pinks and oranges,
But a peach of richest chocolate,
As brown as the earth upon which they stand.
This they cannot comprehend;
Comprehend nor tolerate.
A salty tear is born.