crafting paper planes

two

to a mother,
who wakes me up
everyday with
tinglings of echo
reminding me
of each miniscule
thing slipping
off my threaded mind.

she doesn't feed
me bread and honey,
she makes me gulp
every sip of aspect
i forgot to learn.

she ties my
shoeslaces
reminding me
of each turn
i need to take
whenever my mind
internally breaks.

she's not a mere
mother we all call
she's an era;
of making me
the person
who wakes up
everyday without echos
a girl who
is full with gulping
manners and aspect
and a woman
who knows
which turn to take
when her mind
breaks.

not a woman
we should call her,
a creator she is
a crafter
undoubtedly;
irrevocably.