SEEDS AND BUDS
by Nathan Wendte
It began, like all good things, with Love:
Her dad had worked in Florida,
He became a friend,
He became a “nèg,”
And his daughter was raised listening to that beautiful mystery language.
She wanted to go, and I didn’t want to leave,
The answers that I had aren’t worth the questions that I asked.
For us, behind the mountains lay the pit,
But the language stayed, stuck, mixed with the French from France I used to speak.
Let’s fast forward--three years later:
I came to New Orleans before discovering,
My relatives arrived in the same place
The day before yesterday?
Many days before yesterday.
They ascended, they travelled,
And the place where they planted was far away.
I was born with the English language,
No one grieved,
For the languages the family had forgotten.
I’m not French like you, you are,
I speak, I sing, I pray it, yeah,
But even so there isn’t enough
to let this Frenchman pass.
No, I don’t believe I was born “Creole,”
My mother is hiraeth,
My father is Wanderlust,
And my heart is everywhere going and coming.