Pretend maple seeds are helicopters—
missile fingers blast them from the sky
and watch them spiral,
almost graceful, until they land,
noiseless.
The seeds can be the people.
Passengers to capped mountains,
with ice picks and cleats,
they aim to brave glaciers.
Or the seeds can be soldiers—
nameless invaders that come
to scratch away our home.
Fingernail bullets shred wings
and eject the people.
Tiny hands clap, explosions.
The maple tree can only wave
as its children die in waves.
The yard burns—
silent voices call out
in search of the separated.
Their mother calls for dinner,
and the children abandon their play.
Leave behind a wake
of a hundred corpses burning.
JKolasch
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