"We always called maple seeds whirlybirds,
just as we always did so many things, as children.
We liked them best when they were yellow--
when tossed alone, in twos, or even bunches--
they came swirling down. Too green,
they fell with a plop. Too brown, too thin to fly,
or they fell apart, exposing their spider veins
like the vertical strings on a badminton racket.
If we had rain, mush, beside the welcome mat.
But this morning, sailing swiftly by my window,
catching the light--white and lovely,
delicate of drift--landing in a driveway crack
or in gutters in the fertile loam that once was
other maple leaves, those ’copters from the sky--
unshaken in purpose--became a circle of trees."
Poem by Helen Losse
Oil Painting 6x6 panel
