
Alone I sit,
in the platform I wait
for tomorrow I spot
the twentieth dancing pair of shoes

Alone I sit,
in the platform I wait
for tomorrow I spot
the twentieth dancing pair of shoes

She walked into my office one day and quietly shut the door behind her. She quickly removed her scarf and there, staring at me was a portrait of a beautiful, restful innocent woman, beaming up an alluring smile that not even an artist hand would have carved. Although, she was in her forties, a picture of flawlessness, childlike like calmness, wrinkle free silhouetted face the world wouldn’t dare see, emerged.

Every new month is like adding a page to the book that is our lives, each with its stories and blessings, new music to our ears, new sound in the accordion, the poem on the corner.
It is March, the third month of the year or as we say on the streets, the second full blown month of laughter, smile, fun and jamboree. The sun is out, the spring peeks in, the leaves are saying hello and the birds sideways quietly singing the melody.
It is time to celebrate woman, us, grandmothers, mothers, sisters, aunts, daughter, girlfriends, us; the best friend, the sharp-witted shadow, your mirror in the powder room, the incessant lover, the proud your secret carrier card member, the tough cookie in the carousel, the cryer in the closet, the eternal artist, the rock star listener, the truth teller, the soldier in the room, the amen companion. It is March, it is us, women, it is March.
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