September 28, 2005
You speak of my love like You have experienced love like mine before
Part of the Tinkerbelle Mural on La Brea Ave, Los Angeles, CA.
The Things we don't Say.
She sits on the front porch
balancing the basket of rice
on her fragile knees.
always looking to see if there are
dark spots in the rice...
only the best for the children
she grew, with threadbare Ein Gyis on her back.
She thinks she sees some dark spots ahead
but she holds on because
she has not seen the young ones in her heart yet.
They are coming by train, by plane, by car
and always so far away -
and always so short a stay.
and the tears that would fall
would move mountains tall
and the tears that will be held inside
could drown a thousand lies.
she has been planning to put down the rice basket
to pen some letters.
but she can't see clearly what is being written
in front of her.
she looks in the vast whiteness for some dark spots.
and the young one in her heart -she is always traveling
by car, by train, by plane just to be with her.
And she wants to say:
"do you know I've been travelling forever
just to be with you right here
on the porch with the basket of rice?"
But she doesn't - just to keep the tears inside.
But she can see the old woman, - still wearing
threadbare Ein Gyis on her back
as her wrinkled hands sweep through the rice..
she thinks she sees some dark spots ahead,
But she's holding on because they are not here yet.