Today, my ink is grey, not black.
Perhaps it felt the cold seep in.
The grey words seem a little dull.
Perhaps they wanted to sleep in.
Morning has quieted everything.
Perhaps I’ll hear the needle drop,
Were it to slip from Mother’s hand,
‘Tween the strides of the ticking clock.
Her flowers look a brighter white;
She is threading them for her God.
Devotion, never wavering.
Submission, filled in every thought.
And here I sit, so distracted.
So easily, I’m losing hope.
Complaining of some dried ink,
Lingering on a slipping slope.
Mother, grinning, calls out to me,
“See how pretty the garland is.”
I go to take a closer look
Only to find a lot amiss.
Petals are curling up like hooks,
Many are beaten by the rain.
And yet, they look so beautiful,
Their Dharma shining through their pain.
And what is this that holds them so
Resolute in their will to pray?
Is it my mother’s Bhakti now?
Yes, it surely seems that way.
Perhaps, then, greying words can too
Perform their Dharma, as they are,
If I can pour some Bhakti more
Beyond what I have poured so far.