Winter dawn –
I sit with my grandmother
as she weaves the sweater for me.
“You know how happy we were then?”
she says, with a trickle of river
racing down her wrinkled cheek;
“A line, a boundary drawn not only along
two seperate nations;
but along families,
She carefully weaves the threads
of every hue –
red, green, blue.
“The greenest of pastures,
fluttering butterflies with their gaudy wings,
sunlit mustard flowers blooming.”
And I see a tear,
glistening on the thin treads
and then, I tenderly wipe them off
with a flower petal.
“Those mustards which bloomed with the shades
of sunlit stars.”
One flower petal
and in the depths of Grandma’s eyes
I saw mustard flowers