My Mother’s Hair

My mother’s hair

is silk-soft,

she breathes

a deer breath

and surrenders

to my hands.

Long ago

she washed me,

her sure fingers

combing through

my hair.

Now I pray

her wounded heart

finds solace

in my touch.

She tires quickly

and I wrap her warm.

Her dark eyes

thank me,

she is too tired

for words,

but it is I

who is grateful

to feel my mom’s

silk-soft wisps

through my fingers,

to thank her

for my life.

Everyday Om

The television is going loud.

Kitchen lights buzz, bright as comets,

light-bees in my head.

I’m washing dishes to find calm and peace,

my friend-element water

clearing and caressing.

Solace.

I’m longing for willow trees

when I hear a low sound

like Tibetan monks chanting

Om

It goes on and on.

Amazed, I seek out the source,

then almost laugh.

The dishwasher is rumbling on,

sending a seed syllable into my bones.

Thank you, I think, for this gift.

Om is everywhere.