Mother's Face Poem by Arvind Srivastava

Wrinkles on her forehead,
like cracked dry fields.
In every line hides
a hungry day, a weary night.

Clouds swim in her eyes,
sometimes raining, sometimes still.
That smile, broken like glass,
yet pieced together for me.

The lines on her hands have faded,
cooked away in the kitchen's fire.
Every roti shaped by her fingers,
like a morsel of prayer.

Fewer words on her lips now,
but a deep meaning in her silence.
When she looks at me,
all of time seems to pause.

Mother's face,
an old house now,
that doesn't collapse, only bends.
In every corner, my story,
in every crack, her mark.