Crowned in Curls
By: Sienna González
I wear a crown not made of gold,
but coils and waves, fierce and bold.
Each spiral tells a tale untold,
of roots that dance, free and old.
The wind may tug, the rain may fall,
yet still they rise, defying all.
Not meant for taming, not for chains,
but for the sun, the sky, the rains.
No straightened path, no iron’s hold,
just twisting rivers, wild and whole.
A legacy runs through each strand,
whispered by those who walked this land.
My grandmother’s hands once wove these curls,
soft as clouds, strong as pearls.
She said, “These coils, they hold the past,
a story written to ever last.”
From distant shores where voices sang,
to fields where freedom’s echoes rang,
these curls have weathered storms and years,
held up by love, not ruled by fears.
Let them bloom, let them play,
in rebel arcs, in grand array.
For every curl, a whisper sings
a song of strength, of boundless wings.
So let them rise, unbowed, untamed,
a tribute to the ones who came.
My roots run deep, my spirit high,
a crown of curls, I wear with pride.