what you think, sitting
on my sofa, facing same direction  

in my front room, wonder
if you notice detail, composition  

color, texture, juxtaposition
or maybe you merely breathe  

it all in, already familiar, comfortable
here, where you’ve often perched  

by my side, sifting through lines
of poems and drying my tears  

just like I know exactly
what flowers to plant, which weeds  

to pull in your garden, pruning
Mother’s roses as if they were  

my own, grateful to have known
enough to porch sit with her,  

seeking wisdom from a woman
who raised three children  

as my one (and lonely) cuts
front lawn every week  

(you prompt your own
to pay what I instruct my own  

to refuse) because you taught
me what a child feels  

in response to affection my mother
refused, unchartered territory—  

sincere appreciation, not obligation
when merely returning care given  

in childhood, privilege to provide
home, enjoying puzzles purposefully

solved, each piece considered,
much like the quilts stitched  

to cover shoulders of your own
sons they still cherish, perhaps  

burying in to sniff deeply scent
of maternal affection I pray  

my son seeks in San Marzanos
simmering in garlic and basil,  

or maybe paprika and bourbon,
acquired taste from being raised  

in same state you reared your family
I’m honored to know