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.
