POETRY: Alzheimer’s I

Geese sing as they fly or maybe
it’s just conversation
in lyrical beat to the rhythm of
wings slipping through sky

Trees grow tall overnight or is it
the time between branches
that fork and sprout out in prickly fir
needles like the ones in her mind

She stepped onto her porch or perhaps
her mother’s–it could be–and bent down
to pick up the present–or maybe the past–
in the pieces of a shattered white rose