Seedlings

The tiny dervish nutlet whirrs as we

Admire its moment, slow descent to earth

From towering maple. Autumn’s gentle breeze

Moves through our hair and yellow leaves. With mirth

Upon her face, my daughter’s red small gloves

Pursue the falling seeds in hope to catch,

In flight, a future tree whose limbs above

Will harbor squirrels and nests where finches hatch.

My mug of cider warms my hands and throat.

Her laugh warms more. Its music and the scent

Of dying leaves combined bring forth a note

I hear and truth I feel, a whisper sent

By rustling leaves through wind: the winter’s near,

But fallen leaves sustain so sprouts appear.