The Power Source

When noonday’s sun unwinds just for a while
Behind the shapes of white by half past twelve,
My ma, perfumed with spices, fully delved
Into the crisper, lets go of the pile
Of to-dos for our lunch and hits the bed.
“Don’t call me for some minutes now,” she says
And starts to snore right off. This is her day’s
Brief source of power for her limbs and head.
In thirty minutes, she completes a round
Of sleep like eight full hours, wakes by one
p.m. as if she’s rising with the sun
At dawn, when verve and liveliness abound,
Then goes on with her cooking zealously,
Defying ageing yet at sixty-three.