My mother notices everything.
The slick snail crossing the sidewalk in front of us is her friend.
The morning has always been her ally or so she made it seem.
She spared me the duty of things called chores,
and instead sent me to my room to memorize T.S.Elliot
or Rilke or study right angles at my drawing board.
My mother appreciates light.
around every equation,
and loves that the square knows
how to square even the circle.
She likes her pencils sharp
and her paintbrushes brushed
and her sock drawers color coordinated.
I remember her most with
a tape measure over her shoulder,
a pencil in her hand and her glasses
as if visionary lenses peering at some
piece of fabric or flaming letter God sent
because if there is anyone God likes to please
with His riddles, rhymes and prophecy
I have no doubt
that it is my Mother.
I wonder if she knew,
when she taught this way
of noticing to me,
that it would be such a blessing
and really at times,
a burden of noticing,
and sometimes being the only one.
I would prefer to notice each bright stone
than to sit amongst rocks I do not call by name.
Shiloh Sophia, 2011
Written for my Mama last night.