On this Sunday ,we feared the rain might fall
And anger the mom’s earth under tree’s feet.
The rocks might tumble as rain would loosen
The tree’s feet from the mother’s floorboard.
She would be sleeping on crook of her arm
Brooding on the blue sky deprived of its sun.
Our snake of road might not fork out tongue
And rain wipers might say their decisive no’s
To our proposed journey to the world’s edge.
The windows might not be free to the nights
And the blinds might be put up to rain-moths
For fear of their dying by our flickering lamps.
But now it is as if hills may not lose bearings .
And they may still hold the trees in their lap.
Wipers may yet whisper yes to a windshield.
Toy train may puff in small bursts of smoke
Along a snake of road forking tongue calmly
To a piece of the sky firmly glued to the earth.