Friday, November 13, 2009



Every morning an old man, with a jute
sack slung over his bent back,
leaves his cottage.

His mother’s ancient shadow sits by
the fire keeps ember alive. She is older
than the oldest olive tree in the grove.

She came here when the earth was new,
stars not yet born and the moon was
a pale outline on black canvas.

Her son is gathering roses’ dream
and bird songs in the outer field to sustain
her in a life of perpetuity.

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