My mom is on the floor again,
one leg caught in the bed rail,
the other tangled in her blanket.
She is screaming, "something is wrong
with the moon".
I know I have to do something so I look
for answers in the shape of the clouds,
the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup,
even in the pattern of ants crawling
across her bedroom floor.
But deep down I know
she is a seed on the maple tree