She/her

In some winter mornings, I think of mother
Mother, when in some winter mornings she thought about us
Our worlds merged together to give rise to something that
Made sense only now, when books and windows vanished
And what left was the oevure of her.
The bedsheets and biscuits talked
While we listened to them, thinking they
Must be talking in some foreign toungues 
Only to realize, that we the inheritor of this world
Are listening to the other worlds of hopes and dreams
Of endurance and efforts
Of goals and gauntlet.
Of Ma's words.

We are meaningful only when she wishes
With her words for a day that is yet to come 
And stay forever.