Not a poet

The ritual

To have mother’s breath on your forehead,

The warmth of her blessings,

That Pink and honey of cherry blossom,

The tenderness of breeze,

The scent of spring

And the passionate yearnings of love,

All escapes me

I write on a quiet Monday noon

And at numbness of still midnights,

With swollen aching feet

While the madness in me

Flows on paper to find comfort

And smiles with pride.