Between Teacups and Clotheslines…

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Curls escape like wayward whims
from a stoic bun of stolid indifference,
as sweat beads pepper
furrowed brow of worry
like water droplets on lotus leaves,
trickling down oft to imitate
defrosted sigh of winter,
flowing down glass panes at noon.

Hands wrinkled, weather-beaten,
resembling that of her grandmother
–having endured many a frothy tussle,
wear rings dulled and faded by time
like sepia photographs in dogeared albums,
now wedded to fingers forever
and beyond~ only to be rotated in
fuming moments of urgency.

Within flour canisters she hides
meager savings of bargain and thrift
~ like miser’s gold-pot buried underground,
while she reigns supreme as a sorceress
surrounded by luscious aromas and flavors,
wielding her spatula as a wand
to create magical delights on fire-flames.

Humming fractured lines of lyrics
half-forgotten and fabricated,
she talks oft to herself just to ensure
that her solitude has not maimed
those long learnt conversation skills~
disuse atrophy perhaps?
For dinnertime woes and complaints
are hardly versatile enough
to qualify as a dialogue.

Refereeing squabbles and pillow fights,
absentminded daily appointments with soap operas
just to forget her petty troubles,
while the needle knit patterns of affection
for limbs long outgrown
as she fails to steal moments of respite,
the ticking moments befriend
her insomnia as she ponders
on impending problems
in murmured prayers for survival…

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2 thoughts on “Between Teacups and Clotheslines…

  1. I hear your heart aching here … the meaningless days and chores that keep you from flying. I, too, felt like that when our children were young. The only thing that gave me meaning was faith in a benevolent God, who walked by my side and gave me a companion.
    By the way, may I kindly ask you which country you live in? I am from the USA. I have a feeling that you are from Asia (India, perhaps?). My husband and I have been to India six times.

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