My Mother

MY MOTHER See her laden and brimming with the sheaves On a hilly furrowed plane shrouded by leaves Her way homewards she plods and heaves. See her joggles on the spinning wheel A textile she winds out the cotton reel And made many hue garbs with great skill. See her broil as she stirs the broth in the tripod; Day by day the market and stream she trod And fetch fire woods and make fine wares of gourd. See her sit on a stool, behind the moon wanes; She enacts folklores of ancient reigns, Of men and animals, plants and bizarre planes. See her upon her breasts life’s incubi weigh As all her offspring upon her tender bosom lay She cossets them from womb to tomb till she’s grey.