My poems grow
like my daughters.
Their nursery ponytails
lending flow to the morning gale.
Their smooth hop step
without a jump
on squares chalked
hard on the slippery
cement floor mixed
with this mirage of marble.
Brushing, vigorously washing,
painful braids tightening and
their school bags getting
leaner in years.
Lipstick, kohl, mascara
taking on like music to verse.
Halfway through,
my poems get hold of style
then look for their own substance.
The first sign comes through
the art of
scolding in love
a pass over from family mothers.
I have never made promises with my poems
nor do I plan to squat
in the balcony of thought
and wait for them to come home.
They come with the
soft morning breeze
still riding their ponytails
like the nursery days.
