Reaching out to mom

Mom’s stool is awake on dark cold balcony,
Sniffing night air spread by the fourth moon.

When you open the door to the old balcony
It makes old affectionate sound on the floor

Like postman pushing letters through door
Letters assuring dear ones, safe and sound.

We stand on its soul to reach our lightbulbs
Our feet terribly wobbly but our souls stable

In earth-sky chain connecting vast spaces.
Standing on it, we wish to reach out to mom.