My mother is eighty-two,
not so steady on her feet;
she falls now and then;
last week, in her driveway;
missed a step she said; she has
more of them now:
moments when she seems
almost absent from herself
and the greedy earth pulls her.
I watch leaves fall
and wonder how
it can be the same word,
a few yellow leaves now,
just outside my window,
caught suddenly in
an updraft, like butterflies
drifting down, before
they land on a flower,
wings opening,
and closing like lungs.