A Diamond For Mom On Mother's Day
How many springs that bloomed and withered like flowers?
How many winters that came and melted in front of me?
How many summers that burnt my skin and dried the land?
How many autumns had covered the front door with leaves
that crackle, when you stepped-on, rushing to kiss me?
I’m a grown man
now, early-forties. Yet,
I still remember well what I wore on my first day of school;
It was not signature, nor a famous Armani brand; but
a hand made barong, sewn to fit me.
You slaved yourself over it, so that neighbors
won’t tease me, half-naked going to school.
I also remember when I held your worn hand in mine
to compliment you; and you looked straight into my eyes,
bluish---like the color of the sky over us. You smiled.
The warmth of your hands still lingers on my body,
mingles with the sweat of your blood that runs thru my veins.
At that moment of time I knew, my life’s filled with love.
To you, my beloved Mom
Happy Mother’s Day!
Here, I brought a basket of apples, your favorite
which I picked from our grove---at the back garden.
Let me cut this red one, for you, and I’ll show…
the star---the symbol of my past and my future. A great star.
Mom, only these I’ve for you, fruits of my hands, not diamond.
My precious son, red or green apple, Californian or not, is fine
with me. And, I don’t need diamond, for I already have one
since nineteen hundred and sixty-seven, the year when I saw
the cockcrow and dusk, finally, met that caught me, by surprise.
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