Everyday she waits.

Photo by Hakeem James Hausley on Pexels.com

Everyday,

when the splash of crimson color dissolves in the sky,

and the wings of bat cloaks the sky,

her silhouette framed in those wooden doors,

heaves a sigh.

Everyday,

during those grey hours she sits at her door,

with her needles and her entangled wool.

She knits for her daughters and sons,

she knits for her grandchildren and relatives unknown.

Everyday,

she steals a glance from the corner of her eyes,

of those ghostly and dusty roads.

Her eyes flickering with a dying hope,

waits and humm.

Everyday,

she knits and when the stars mocks her bare skin,

she slowly wraps her wool and sweaters,

and stacks them inside her age old treasure box,

where they rot and rot.

~Mayuri Srivastava~

Click on the link below to read my previous poem called “Be my home again”.

Be my home again.

Thank you for reading.