How shall I start my song? For I write these words
To immerse within your ears
Sweet notes of daily practices, dear mother.

Days move slowly at her own pace,
Delicately she moves the stars
Across her expansive breast, never a hurry

Swirls, nor lingers in her contented mind.
Her own grind is worth her toil,
At her leisure does matter move at her sway.

I long to speak, and with eyes bowed low
I begin with measures; and tones;
To humbly seek the gift before me.