In the half-light,
she steps out into the chill of dawn,
her shawl tight around her.
Slightly stooped and weighed down
...
Funny how this taro leaf reminds me of a heart-
its shape, the veins that flow outward from the core.
A bit of fancy and it won't be hard
to find it pulsing lightly in my hands.
...
In the garden, bamboos arch
to the slightest wind
and the sun hides its face.
The smell of the earth after the rain
...
You've asked me how the spider weaves
Such fine-looking web
How it keeps itself safe in its net.
Plucked from its web, doesn't it plummet to its death?
...
Domestic Routine
In the half-light,
she steps out into the chill of dawn,
her shawl tight around her.
Slightly stooped and weighed down
by an ache that makes her old,
she whistles softly
to banish all memories of ghosts.
Her mind wanders off to tasks
both routine and mundane:
the trek to her favorite baker
and later, to the stalls
for a week's ration of condiments,
seasonings and staples.
At mid-morning, a bounty of fresh produce
awaits her skillful hands.
Would the legumes need sauteing
Or are they better off steamed?
Once grilled, would the fish excite the palate
and the eggs when buttered and creamed,
would they be more worthy of praise?
These questions she ponders
as she regards her young ones at play.
Even as she gives in
to an ache deep in her belly,
she brushes it off
when she remembers
the quilt that needs mending,
drapes waiting to be laundered,
ironed, and stored;
mementos to be dusted
later to be kept away-
and her young ones who are no less fragile
than the china in her cupboard.
Tasks diverse and routine-
they banish all memories of pain.