As I am done with another poem, I put my pen’s tip to rest on the white chest of my paper, and look at the clock that runs from its own shadows and chases its own reflection, While it reaches the unanticipated.
Terrified, I close my eyes and think of a moment when the close does not matter, when it grows so tired of running and chasing itself that it stops.
Now as the clock has been silenced And I can no more hear it shrieking, I hear her voice.
Her voice, calling my name like a leaf gently lying on a pond surface that had been mute for too long.
Her lullaby, ringing like a wind charm that has been touched by a raindrop, makes me sleep in my thoughts.
Her hands, holding me into her arms like the sunlight embraced tightly by a droughted land.
Her fingers, feeding me food of thought like a drop of ink that falls the pen and fills the paper.
Her eyes, looking at me with love like mine looking at the clock that has stopped moving while my pen at rest has not.
Her smile, that she throws at me like the dandelion which throws her children away to be free,
Her tears, that slide down From her eyes to her lips like the rocks on the mountains that cause avalanche.
Her food, that she cooks While she burns in and out like the cells of the body that die out quickly for the new ones to be born.
Her stories, that she teaches me about the world around like the wind that whistles to the water that never stops flowing.
Her lessons, that she wants me to learn and remember like a book that turns to the right page with every command the wind makes.
Her love, that keeps me alive while she is dead, like the earth that gives birth to her new ones from the womb she no longer owns.
I think of her as I realize How the clock has paused I now know, she and her thoughts stop time. My mother, stops time.
So, I lift up my empty pen from the ‘just blue turned’ chest of my paper and look at the clock that is again chasing its own shadows and running from its own reflection. I am done with another poem.