Sunday, November 11, 2007


The mother never leaves her home.
Even at work she is at home.

She leaves home early to return home early.
She does her work in time to reach home in time.

What pulls her home like a field of gravity?
No children to care;
They all grew up and left her long.
No husband to worry;
He is dead and gone.

But the smell of morning tea,
The sound of steaming rice,
The murmur of t. v. and fridge,
The weary chairs and tables,
The pots and pans, buckets and bedspreads
They all follow her to work.

As she works they wait in patience.
When she returns they follow her home.
Where she is home there is.

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