Maple Keys
All morning in the blow
of a coming front
the silver maple seeds whirl
like the blur of hummingbirds
across the road, into the ditch,
catch in the boxwood,
cradle in the roof gutters.
Now in the still, cool evening air
some lie stranded on the porch
like a scattering of notes
across the staves of painted flooring
vivid against the dark boards,
a score of music
that will never sound.
Or music already heard,
the flourish of their thin
green tinged, stocking-fine
veined wings. A dormant moment,
and then a grackle’s course call,
the same this evening as before
unknowing of the music at my door.
William Hart
| I have written poetry, mostly privately, over the years. This one was written for a classmate and dear friend with whom I shared musical experiences at Yale. |