I hardly ever write about my mother. She is so hard to capture, but those of you who know her understand how she much she deserves my praise. So, I decided to try one for Mom. I love her so. Here goes . . .
My mother clasps a glass that is always half full.
The missing portion matters not at all.
What’s left below the void is more than plenty.
The beauty in her measure bears but bliss.
She sees the light that lingers as bountiful blessing
She sings and celebrates her sumptuous share . . .
How can one woman carry such a cache of grace?
My mother searches out the wonder in all weather.
A starless sky’s a moment to marvel at the muting, miracle mist.
Each drenching, downpour day provides her puddling pleasure.
In winter whirling winds, she worships snowflake’s show.
With the the sultry summer sun she’ll sleep a soothing slumber.
And moonless nights intensify the brilliance in her soul . . .
Why did God, or nature, or fate, or angels gift her to me?
Should it be within my power or need to know?