Mother knows nothing of fall’s fickleness,
only the smog of medicine, tang of tired diapers.
To reach her, I pass nurses deluged in data,
residents wheelchair-dozing.
One summer, a mourning dove smashed
into my bedroom window, and died.
I was told the birds mate for life,
and its partner sang of heartbreak,
an innate awareness of loneliness.
Mother defines loneliness as a husband
too briefly known: Her great love. Or a scoundrel.
She’s a tsunami threatening tulips,
fitful as weather. I am too.
I’m young again, steering
a stroller, sleepy baby inside,
both of us dreaming of dinner.
A dove hurtling against the pane,
stunned by its sudden end.