A Poem for My Mother

My god,
how can I be so lucky?
My God,
I thank you.

To sit here with my mother on a Saturday night
who in all my 24 years
has not raised her voice to me,
never an unkind word,

has this ever happened in history?
That a mother and son share no hard feelings,
no slights,
at least none I’ve felt
and I’ll admit
I’m innocent of the pain I cause others
but this is a miracle, yes,
that my mother and I sit here
sharing not pain but a love,
listening to a mutual favorite radio station
Saturday night playing both mellow Grateful Dead
and scorchin’ Stevie Ray, God rest his soul,

our chairs next to the fireplace,
the night spins on while we read,
dying embers between us,
we have out-read fire itself,
quoting occasionally from the books
we picked up just this afternoon,
in one of the many libraries we have visited together.

She told me when she was a kid
she climbed her favorite tree to read,
her Shirley Temple hair and farm grove leaves
blowing in the wind.
Now here she is,
reading with the youngest branch of her blood.
The love of books she has cultivated in me
a small part of something bigger,

my mother my friend,
my mother my mother,
I love you,
I thank you.