I do not think of my mother every day
As I did with my infant mind.
I do not dwell on her reactions to my deeds
As when a tripping youth I'd run astray
Long has it been since wondering what sleep she'd lost
Of teenage nights when midnight seemed an early end
Or pondering the silent prayerful tears she shed
When with sufficient age waged a war upon the wicked world
I seem to bless her in many passing moments now
When the victories and miseries in every sort of news
Prove True the value of her parenthood
And profess the timeless greatness of her deeds
I am just a weave in the vital tapestry of her life
A grateful thread in her masterwork yet undone
A knot made to feel as worthy as any stitch
My proud display is claiming her my own
I do no think of my mother every day
I Should
-Hermit King- 2002
