she leans over,
my mother, her back
like the soft curve of a
        worn down mountain
        and her hands relaxed, and drumming
on the wheel
her head is tilted towards me and bobbing
        gently as she drones of the trees
in the fall
she points
        one hand on the steering wheel
at the leaves

        we drive
my feet bare
and resting on layers of
        unfound dirt on the floor
her droning about the colors and the beauty
        her love of fall
and I try to listen but
        the tiny hangnail
on my finger that seems a little
bigger and the scar on my
        hand both seem more
interesting than the trees

         yet still I like her words
and they comfort me
         every year the same
we drive
she drones
         and I fight to hear her words
until they appear to me as the view
outside of my window. 
         every year the same
there in the fall with my mom
one hand on the steering wheel