Falling ... Falling

My, such exuberance in one
so aged, expressed by the
bouncing flight down a graceful
set of stairs, in a lovely home.
The imp of impulse is the
devil's apprentice. Elderly
the woman of that house may be
but she nonetheless rushes about
as though time is trickling
through the hourglass of her life
all too swiftly and she races to
catch abreast of it. This time
the imp prodded her to greater
speed and she flew, feet 
hovering on the risers, too
fleet and too evasive in their
rush for the security of contact.
She rocketed and she tumbled;
nothing elegant about her
scramble of outstretched arms
and legs akimbo, briefly 
touching on each of the many
treads on the grand stairway
and it was, finally, her head
whose cranium cracked on
the marble tiles below with a
sharp, resounding thud of
finality. But not to worry, no harm 
done. Oh well, relatively speaking.