The Changing Colors of Skin
Though I had no ideographs
like those of a Chinese girl,
I relished the joy of selecting
the colors from the crayon
box. Age, seven years,
my hair was curled by Mother
into fascinating long ringlets.
Fascinating even to me.
The marks I made on the page
were likely the first chapters of
my little-girl life. Frustrated though,
I had no just-right color for skin. That
changed, Crayola adjusted. Our
world adapted, too, into these
many new shades of skin. Life
became fascinating, like my curls.