HiveComb

I remember when some thoughts slapped my Mama's mouth into her left cheek. I was eleven, broken and naive.
Words lifted the bag of salt in her eyes and deposited them on my tender thoughts; an act, that toughened my bones.
The desert, a plantain of Rosy thorns, left wet dust on the path of my tongue.
Life, truly hope in shell of burning bushes.
Mama always, would recite the beads quietly thunmbing each, with the print of faith.
She would always whisper into the ears of heaven words that keeps burning bush, burning.
I have tasted the lips of her sweat. Her bruised palms, soothed my wounds. She is the Christ I see on the face of a woman. But age is a conscious typewriter writing each day with wrinkles of time.
I burrow the hilly sun, on daily basis. Filling tunnels between the teeth of night.
I carry my mother's mirror with one hand while I pour bucket of sweat on these daffodils
Daffodils if comfort
The melody is bittersweet. Sweet on the tip and bitter on the depth.
Life is an hard knock take to tell.

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Everything Good Will Always Come