What a poet loves the most,
more than anything else,
Is how she completes her poems.
Entwining words with one another
hoping a creation will arise,
rather imperfect at first,
but moulding it over and over,
even as time cries.
The poet forgets herself,
and the world around her for she falls in love with the poem,
giving it everything she has,
hoping it may represent her most perfect dreams.
But there are often some poems,
taking a lifetime to complete,
for the poet is never satisfied,
even when her creation is ‘a lion in a fight’,
or ‘as smart as Einstein’,
as high and mighty as the bean tree from jack and the beanstalk,
or like a peach tree soft and tender.
And finally when her time comes near,
and she looks up from the bed,
caresses the soft skin of her creation,
which still smells to her the way a new book smells.
A small smile all too visible,
“Go and give love to others,
how you have given me the same”
she said.
How could I,
I whispered to myself,
When you, MAA, were the one who gave love and life to the poem,
and were more than a perfect poet.
A poem dedicated to the national poetry writing month, and my mother.
Open to all sorts of constructive criticism.