african american poetry

night is dark, and the winter winds
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
they may talk of love in a cottage
if i should die, think only this of me
arched the flood
who is the runner in the skies
but i cannot read you now
i expect you
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
with lips blood red and heart of stone
look out upon the stars, my love
daughters of time
all down the years
the saddest of the year