My Mother

In her times, she was a spangling beauty.
Her bridal snap would put to shame the beauty of Princess Diana.
Her heavy locks of hair & her brows, black just as a moon less night.
Once youth sat on her face, as morning dew sits on a grass leaf,
Which is now a dying star, flickering and blackening.
Her perkiness is lost in her struggles and duties,
In her years dedicated to her home, her partner & her kids.

The effortless activities from the grocer to the kitchen,
From garments shop to the book store, all in one day,
Never wearied her out.
Now sometimes, even her breathing is labored.
Her same hands are now crinkled & her face old,
O! Alas! It’s old and tired,
The reflexes on her forehead are now permanent flakes,
And not the result of a frown or a sulk.
The grey of her hair now shines in the sun,
And I hurriedly cover them up, with a jet black dye.
Because they scream to me, and sometimes even smirk,
“She is getting old, oh so old”
“She is tired, oh so tired”
“She is turning a child, oh a small little child”
“She is nearing her genesis, oh the genesis of her soul”