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.
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.
Inky Cat's Poems 