My mother says
that I'm just being silly,
frivolous,
nonsensical,
that my thoughts have no use at all.
Where is money in poetry?
Where is poetry in money?
She shakes her head when I am
somewhere else,
tearing
off sweet clouds to share with the poor,
and sliding
across the silky rainbow which really has no end at all,
unlike what my mother thinks.
She says that those
childish habits will wear off
soon
when I am older and
more mature.
Yet all I see of growing up is having that
hard glint in the eye,
like dull gray flint, never getting a chance to be lit
into a brilliant spark of
fire.
Five long years have passed and if only
my mother had
just a bit of that fire in her eyes,
she might've noticed that
every night,
when the moon burns so coldly,
that I'm still walking amongst
the winter stars.