She stood facing the wall,
Busy making what she knew,
The aromas that emanated said it all,
The ones she wanted to please were few.
She stood there with sweat lining her brow,
Others walked in with one foot out of the door,
The calling was hers to make the chow,
Her hands were on the gas stove, feet firm on the floor.
Over time, she found music floating in her head,
The tones and notes oft heard before,
Kept playing as she worked, thought or led,
And slowly, it all became clear as she planned her next chore.
Somewhere in the midst of a storm,
She had connected with a new calm,
The voices from within her were of another form,
They brought her peace and worked like a balm.
‘Work is routine, chores need to be done,
What remains of the day is for you to live,
Things will be the same, it’s for you to have fun,
Your fine lines now know what it takes to just give and give.’
The pressure cooker blew the whistle,
Her train of thoughts came to a staggering stop,
Now long had she been confined to the wall?
She mused, ” It’s now time to harvest my crop.
What I am doing is unforgiving and endless.
What I wish to do sounds far-fetched and boundless.
But why should I feel locked or restless?
I know what I was and what I have become.
Thank you, God, I am no longer ‘less.’
