Mother's Day

I wake, my usual weekend time,
And out of bed I slowly climb.
Already lights on in the home,
About the house I slowly roam.

Up and dressed, now using Skype,
She is the early rising type.
Seeing this is Mother's Day,
My sister calls from far away.

She also gets her gift from me,
A little cutout chickadee.
Its shape is plump, and color rusted,
And in the garden will be trusted.

Off to yoga, bright and early,
To stretch my body, big and burly.
Touch my toes, and head-to-knee,
Soon more flexible I'll be.

Home to shower, dress, and eat,
Fix my mom a breakfast treat.
Waffles offered, she says "no."
Not how I thought that would go.

Eggs instead, fruit on the side,
Bacon, mushroom, kale inside.
She says she likes it when I cook
(Especially when she's off the hook).

Laundry turned, I turn to nap,
My bed is like a snuggly trap.
Briefly wake, my clothes to dry,
Then back to bed for more shut eye.

Wake to throw on shirt and tie,
Then to church by car I fly.
No time for a proper lunch,
Grab an apple, grapes (a bunch).

Straight from church to yoga rush,
Each request their patrons hush.
Stretching further than before,
Stretch like tree, cobra, and more.

Numbers, logic, order, math,
A knack in these my mother hath.
Patterns do delight her mind,
And so this pattern I did find:

Eighty-two, an easy one,
Current yoga classes done,
Also happens, as luck would be,
To be the year the world met me.

At home, my parents busy packing,
Again a meal is clearly lacking.
My happy task then to prepare
An evening meal for us to share.

Together as I seem to be,
Little credit goes to me.
Though you will never hear her boast,
My mother deserves this credit most.

To her I say, you taught me of
The importance that I act with love.
So, just like any other day,
I close my post with, "Namaste."