I sat at my desk this evening, bereft and ashamed It had been a hollow day With nothing to show for it, and not For want of inspiration. The dream From which I had awakened Lingered on in the morning, with acre upon Rolling acre of my grandmother's coconut plantation about my pillow And her lumbering cottage in a corner. But when I got up words would not flow. Or, They were all wrong. And I walked away. Even though I was happy and laughing -- a child, there -- looking up At a fruit my dad was trying to fall. His mother too was watching then Standing on her two bound feet, each one all of five inches long That held up a large-ish figure. You see, She belonged to a time when only girls with the daintiest shoes Were regarded with respect. So, at the age of nine My grandmother trained her bones and folded her feet in half. This meant endless nights of tears and sleeplessness Days of resolve and not giving up Years of sheer physical strength. I wish I myself were as strong, or a fraction like so. So that on a day like this Despite the stubborn dam I could keep at what I was doing. Say, I did that in the way I've described Keeping at it, at writing Tenacious, patient, focused. From there I'd have come to focus on the plantation And from the plantation I could look up And see the fruit my father was determined to yield Beside his mother. My indefatigable grandmother. The land, the trees, and cottage. I wish I could do that Without self-doubt And feeling frustrated For feeling frustrated. I know it's time to renew myself For I want to stand on small But mighty feet and try to win The fruit, however high, however awkward.