Monday, May 7, 2012

The Elms Rain Seed

The elms rain seed. They’re feather light, have oval wings.
The merest breath of air now carries these zooming
High or, when it fails, it lets them fall by lightly
Twirling undulating beats down on the grey concrete
To make it look like modernistic carpeting
With speckled gold. Clusters lie on chairs, on the summer
Table’s dark green metal grid, waiting there for broom
Or stick to sweep them down. Longingly downward bound
They are, the little would-be elms. They hope for a
Salvation that they picture as black ground, and in
This man-invaded space that consummation,
Devoutly to be wished, seems from the elm’s perspective
Unreachably distant and hard to realize.

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