FOR MAMA

By Stinky

Have you ever woken up to chirping of birds?
Like a real African mama queen?
So much for a cacophony, it’s a theater.
Sighed with pleasurable abandon for a safe family?
Ever gazed at a sunrise?
Squinted through the smoky haze?
So much for a light, it’s a burst of flames.
Have you ever seen the dew vaporize?
Just from from a crack in the kitchen wall?
So much for fog, it’s a sauna.
Walked in the fields barefoot?
Cooing to the sleeping homestead?
So much for a walk, it’s a dance.
In the fields she rocks and tends eagerly,
Maintaining a fiefdom of unending sketches.
The fields ablaze with bloom and her toil,
What a bloom of bright colors and fragrances .
The fields, bright and dull, ploughed and tilled,
What heaviness there’s, so laden.
The fields of hoed out terrain.
Her procession so distinct in the glare of others. First a herd, scrawny boys and lead-canes.
The procession trampling to the plains.
Then mommas with shawls, babies and a hoes.
The procession sucking and tilling till dusk.
Back home, a pot, suckers and bellies to fill.
The procession waltz, romps and judges.
Strong, free and glowing – an African mother’s dream.