As I waited for the bus I watched
the tides of linden tree seeds
splashing on the pavement after a flight
of a few feet: they won’t take root,
car tires will crush them
in a fine powder that the earth
will swallow with September’s rains.
I was stupefied by their wits, by that slight
natural aircraft they use to hover,
in their descent towards a time
they’ll never witness.
Driving home at night
I felt something slipping down
from my hair, and one of those seeds
landed on my arm, its
wings beaten and its stem creased.
Too bad I wasn’t
a prairie buffalo, or an antelope
crossing mountains in a leap:
with a swerve from my hurried course
I’d have dropped the seed nestled in my fur
down into fertile land. But I’m a city
man, and its short passage
was of little use, if now
I relinquish that seed on my terrace,
placing my hope in something more useful
than myself, some wind, for instance.