Mother At Night

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Often when I call her at night, as late as 12am,
before I fall into a world of dreams,
she's up doing The Baltimore Sun crossword puzzle,
and I can see her, even from Taneytown
15 miles away I can see her 
in bed under the yellow embracing glow of the nightlight, 
her thin brown fingers that have defied age like a weakened Amazon
are wrapped around a number two pencil scribbling in
her answers to the questions lightly, erasing others,
figuring out the puzzle, figuring out the answers that connect up
logically, just as she connected up logically
and figured out a greener and surer
path for me to follow, a better less thorny life for me, less potholes of sadness.
She is the queen of puzzles, old, slow, yet still untying them, easily as rainbows appear.
Knowing she is fine there, safe in the old house, I tackle the land
of wily dreams like a shaman chasing
away demons dark as evil incantations.


© Lamont Palmer

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