Visiting The Kiwis My mother visit her kiwi everyday, Her fingers reaching out to where her kiwi lay. Like rough moss on smooth pebble, Her kiwi shone like gold amidst the rubble. My mother cupped the kiwi in her hand, Like a baby her kiwi sleep in lalaland. Tenderly she pressed her kiwi for it to awake, So she can know if it has mature of late. Day after day she repeat her ritual, Till her kiwi has ripened into a fine specimen actual, With luscious flesh and weathered brown skin, Sweet to the core and loyal like a kin.
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