Writers' Choice

Come to me in spirit I seek Come to me in moments I speak Come to me in voice alone Come to me in times of doom. Come to me in dreams I see That leaves its trace in morning's me Come to me in serious doubts Come to me to unfold knots. Come to me in solitude's bower Come to me in learning's shower Come to me with hands that say 'Give me Your number, I'll call I may'. Come to me with a promise benign Come to me in stars that shine Come to me in everyday chores In books or mags, movies or more. Come to me in shades of hue Come to me in moments due Come to me to share Your thoughts Come to me in image of sorts. Come to me the way I do In daily prayers in remembering You Come to me in nature divine Come to me, You are Mine.

This comes almost as a sequel to my previous post 'On Womanhood'. This lady has been serving me ever since she had conceived. I found her touch almost a part of the life that I am living and her presence, inevitable to my well-being. In my kindergarten days, she was a terror. So strict a disciplinarian naturally is unwanted for, to any child and her affinity to education was what I loathed the most. However if words are pouring forth to give shape to my thoughts, I owe it to my mother. Grace is a name that has been given by man to the beauty of womanhood. My mother is short and plump (as I saw her through the eyes of a child) and what pleased me to see, is how she combed her hair, served our dishes after arranging the table, knit our woollen garments and dress us to school. All with meticulous simplicity within time. The one thing I found charming and unparalleled was her smile and the glint in those eyes when she laughed her heart out. However, I hated to be disciplined.