She was sleeping in the evening,
In her usual position, at her usual time
When something magical happened.
She was snoring, rhythmically,
In her usual style, at her usual time
When something caught my eye.
Tiny cracks like mudcracks.
Some deep, some newly formed.
But all carried a tale.
They told me about the beauty of mom.
Mom’s beauty lies in her hands.
Her hands for they are
What makes her special.
She uses them to express her love
And I possibly will never be able to
Repay that love
Even if I toil in a mudcracked field.
When I’m sad… there’s nothing that can calm me,
Like burying my face and embracing