Mother is eighty five now,
Tired, hurting,
Her walk twisted as mountain laurel,
And for years she has refused to even use a cane.
Said people might think she was old,
But today going those few steps
to the car,
for a loaf of bread,
a little milk,
she has told me stories of coming  back
from the store,
so tired,
she had to leave the groceries in the car,
come in the house, take a nap,
then go out, and bring’em in,
this was given out like a documentary,
there was no anger, no judgment,
just an account of a body  
breaking down little by little,
moment by moment,
and she is just as surprised as the rest of us,
and the report today is;
she makes it halfway to the car,
and this is as far as she can go,
So stands there a little,
pondering her predicament, and notices
a Magnolia blossom
from the tree by the walk,
and it is magnificent, and glorious, and beautiful, and sweet,
the kind of sweet that can remind a whole house
of spring, and renewal, and promise,
so breaks it off,
and calls it a day.