Someone’s bread knife would bring in
A morning shaft of sunlight in kitchen
Via a mother’s hands  who had used it.

I would stand on my mother’s old stool
In a city of high ocean and coastal rocks
And the cyclone that raged our outside

With a white dog impatient with a wind
Without a railway master who left him
In a rain and wind custody ,while away.

Like someones bread knife would bring
A shaft of sunlight into a kitchen space
A stool brings my mom’s voice on wind

From rain in a coastal rock of a cyclone
With a little white dog of neighbor man
Who would, later, disappear in his dark

And a mom who would still later vanish
In a voice at the end of Buddha’s stone
But come back, time to time ,on a stool.

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