My Mother Notices Everything

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.

angle.

sound.

edge.

fence post.

ridge.

and circle

curving softly

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

special delivery

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.

But ah…

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.