A Different Child
The Birch, leaning between poplars, oaks, maples, and pines;
In clouded moon, rising without shine,
Bows the parent, in winter’s heavy fallen snow.
Winged mother’s samara seeds, “Helicopters” twirling
Shorn in flight, sent with a hundred and one spins
In falls’ October wind, falls in completion.
A birch is born.
Dark and silver, purity in light of night,
With bark that glows between doubt, of left or right,
Feeling lost on my path in winter’s moonless dome,
Last winter’s child,
Tall and slightly bending, guided me