By Shamik Banerjee

March 17, 2023

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I surmise the delight cast on the face

of a mother on her birth-day.

What happiness enwreathes her; with what grace,

do the elves their pleasure display?

Does a hint betoken her of such a joy

like parents for their children do;

or, like friends assemble as a convoy

and present their surprising view?

Will she bury a little wishing-slip

abreast an aged Oak in moss,

and later speak from her retiring lip

on the retrieval from a loss?

Will she direct her palms towards the skies

for a private prayer of her word,

so it exhumes the dawn to where she lies

and greets her like the morning bird?

Will She feel like a carefree damsel and dance,

or like a plantling's nascent leaf,

that watches the coming rain askance,

and the sweet, imminent relief?

Or, will the thought: these are fancies for the youth,

impose on her- the fiddling need,

and persuade her- She's unyoung; guile on truth:

that youth's esteemed time has gone indeed?

What feelings emerge, you and I won't know

in a mother; a mystic is She.

What delight accretes her, what smile or sorrow,

who herself a begetter be?

Shamik Banerjee

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.