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your innocent inquiries shatter
my shitty morning mood:
"Why does honey drip
in strings, not drops?"
How can I stay mad
at your sticky little hand-prints
on my French window panes,
when your pregnancy was planned?
We prayed love for months
like hungry beasts at
every phase of the moon,
dreaming up names
like Eden and Echo.
Of course, we hadn't a clue
what we were bargaining for.
Neither did God when she created free will.
Only through motherhood, I've been given a glimpse
of how the Creator might feel watching the world spin.
"Silly children are playing their war games again."
You run to me with stories of dinosaurs
and arctic whales with horns.
Now it seems everything
that pre-dates you is
but God's first draft.
I marvel at the worlds
I'll see through your eyes.
Which I reminds me,
I haven't yet prayed today.
Time to speak my gratitude
to my ancestors.
Kamala Devi
8. 10. 2010
2 comments:
Beautiful poem for a beautiful bliss boy! Well done on both, Kamala. :)
Beautiful poem Kamala! It catches some of the many little things that define child rearing. It brought back some very fond memories of my little ones, now 33, 30, and 28. Wow..weren't they just little??
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