Grind

Why does the dough listen to
The commands of my mother?
Like the clay mixed with water
Dances to the cues of a Potter.

Why do the long woolen threads
Follow the thoughts of my grandmother?
Like those bricks falling in line
To the dictates of a mason.

Like the tones of a nightingale align
With the break of light in the dawn.
Why does the axe follow the hands
Of my father towards the intended

Marks on the wooden log?

And the marbles dance impeccably
On kids' fingers in the street and
Kites fly higher and higher with
Each jerk of the tread.

Why do my words run seamlessly,
Upon your instance like
Hailing of fragrance in the garden
Of longing.

And the dreams run wild and
The rainbows adorn the dull sky
As if you walk past my house
Every midnight.