she is always dropping things but never fails to catch me when I fall.

Dropping Things
She has a fragile look an uncertain smile. She speaks in a whisper soft and loud and she is always dropping things.
She walks fast and slow in rain and wind and sun and snow and sometimes she stumbles but never quite falls and she is always dropping things.
Her hair is blonde, sometimes black and now and again purple streaked white. Her eyes are grey shading to blue and sometimes she sits in moonlight out on the porch humming a small lost tune.
She wears coloured glass beads and a round silver locket and bangles set with amethyst and tiny coils of twisted red wire, with a sublime air of innocence, and sometimes she laughs for no reason at all, and she is always dropping things.
She carries a mauve cotton shoulder bag wherever she goes with dangly green tassels and inside it’s a jumble in a muddle of loose peppermints, and she is always dropping things but never fails to catch me when I fall.
She likes walking in sunshine wind in her hair, strawberries and ice-cream, and lavender scented soap Christmas and spring, and old songs on the radio, and she is always dropping things but never fails to catch me when I fall.