My Mother's Poetry

Alright, I haven't posted poetry in a while. In truth I've been spending more time with my nose in a book than I have been writing. For you. A poem. I wrote this when my mother was working on a project, sitting on the couch with her laptop on her lap. It's not exactly a masterpiece, but it isn't horrid.

Her whispered words
drift
through the air,
as gentle and distant
as snowflakes
through a closed window.

Each word
is a mystery
to me,
as I sit
pinned to the recliner
by an old, loved cat,
with his nose tucked
under my chin
while he occupies my chest.

Each word
is only for her,
to test the sound,
so she may revise
as needed.
I dare not speak to her
or raise my voice,
least I disturb her.

All I can do,
as I sit
beneath a blanket
of cat fur,
is wait
and hope
that one day
I too may hear
her poem.