Children ran, baskets swaying
collecting foiled treasures in the garden.
We, enjoying the moments through the screens of our phones,
not really there, simply making sure
we captured the moments to look back on minutes later
as if every day is one big replay,
the record and play, record and play
of our lives.
Sweetness didn’t fit so we instead
harvest mother’s labour,
a basket full of food, a medieval right
long forgotten by many
who trust only plastic-wrapped wares.
Me, trying desperately to enjoy what
is now, instead of worrying of what is tomorrow,
the days I spend in insecurity, wondering
if I am enough. Family should be enough.
But the mood takes me away.
For me, it is always tomorrow;