Looking Down

In her last years, Grandma walked
down the bit of road and back,
arms of her quilted fuchsia coat
flapping in exaggerated vigor,
half-teasing my mother
who urged her on in exercise.
Grandma moved at a tilt,
back and shoulders bent,
gray head usually bowed a little.
"Oh! Pretty!" she once exclaimed,
struck by the inset rocks and glistening
tar of a filled-in pothole at her feet.

These days, I find myself, too often,
tilting. I see maple seeds, mostly,
clumped at the edges of the sidewalk
or crushed down the middle by many
passing feet. Their wings are veined
and fin-like, long as splendid Betta tails,
thin and brittle as old paper. In rose,
straw, or copper they hint
that grace is not only for those
who can look up.