My neighbor’s mother wandered into the hall at three a.m.
Spending the weekend at a daughter’s house, had she forgotten
she wasn’t in her one-floor flat beside the river?
Was she looking for the bathroom when she fell down the stairs?
She spent the weekend with family and friends, yet often forgot;
I too have heard her repeat the same story, tell it over again.
Looking for the bathroom which wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs,
she slipped and fell; her fragile bones sailed headlong into the dark.
I too get stuck in the same stories: I tell them over and over again.
Even the birds sing just two wistful notes, in the rushes by the river.
Old leaves, new flowers— the trees are yellow-gold with sudden shimmer;
see how they change before our eyes. And my neighbor’s mother has flown away.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.