Silver Maple by My Window
by James Green

The silver maple by my window sheds
another swarm of helicopter seeds.
It gives no thought to how or why they spiral
in the grip of gravity to fall
onto my lawn, themselves not knowing what
to do, although a few will nest, then sprout
(perhaps). Who knows where all the others go
or if they settle somewhere else? And so
it is with words I fling into the air.
They hesitate at first, then drift and whorl
about, attempt to find the truth of flight,
the verities of space, of mass and weight
and airborne they no longer are my own.
Where, or if, they land remains unknown.



 

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