My Mother’s Glass
My mother hugs 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 marks the lingering liquid’s bountiful blessing.
She sings and celebrates her life’s rare share . . .
How can one woman hold this gift of grace?
My mother searches out the wonder in all weather.
In winter whirling winds, she worships snowflake’s show.
Each drenching downpour day provides her puddling pleasure.
With sultry summer sun she’ll sleep in soothing slumber.
A starless sky’s a miracle marvel of the muting mist..
Moon nights intensify the brilliance in her soul . . .
Why did God, or fate, or angels gift her to me?
Should it be within my power or need to know?