Mother to Son

For some months I have left you alone,
For I saw that a flower does not grow
The more easily with a rain of stone,
Or insistence such-and-such should not be so.
I would not confine you with my country's past
Nor impose upon you my culture's cast.
Questions about these can feather your sky,
Can weave their arcs in a passionate style,
And you can be sure I'll oblige with a smile.
But if no questions stir and break their shells,
I won't be bothered, I will leave you be.
But I fear there's as yet no clarity
About freedom: It is not desire
Simply to do what your pleasures demand,
To be in the clutch of frivolity's hand.
A cell can be of gold, a comfort as well,
But it remains, after all, a prison cell.
You wanted to paint, you expressed passion,
But you expected the stars at the start.
You thought excitement was the kin of stars,
And so boredom quietly crept in your heart.
If you're to be seized by a sublime space
Within, with the brushstroke being its kiss,
You must not presume upon instant grace,
Nor allow excitements to dominate.
Dodging boredom, you'll never have a rich store.
Each pleasure will leave you emptier than before.
If pleasure and excitement are your nutrition,
You will never grow petals; no sublime space
Will court you, or bestow a master's grace.