in memory of Jeannie Rogers

Sifting down all the falling things,

snowflakes, leaves, dandelion clocks,

pappus fluff falling, falling

to the core of the world

just one, and now another

snatched singly from the falling stream

like a fly by a bird,

snatched and clutched, inspected –

some would say taken – or rejected, released

again, returned

to all the sinking crystals, motes of dust, wings

of dead butterflies going back to the ground,

lit now by a low sun,

all the declining

into galaxies of giving to earth its due,

like seeds, like spores, mildew, dust,

all the falling things

we swung at to catch and see

whatever we could there

and then release, or feed on them,

and be in turn a falling thing

with seeds, and flakes, and pappus

in all our going to earth,

to ground, one with the declining

falling things, small falls

of dust motes in their glory,

feathers, spores, mildew, thistle seeds.

Seán Lysaght's most recent collection of poems was Carnival Masks (Gallery)