Through a windswept field, champagne powder blows.
I walk on sculptured dunes toward the vacant road
and pause to pick up a maple seed
still attached to its wing.

There are no maples for miles.
Maybe it was dropped by a sparrow flying home.

Using the heel of my boot as a hoe,
I scrape away a crust of ice
and plant this seed under a thin layer of soil,
so that come spring
a tree might break from the ground . . .

rising into the air out of which it fell,
and on another night such as this
will hold the moonlight
in the snow on its branches.

This poem first appeared in Widner Review, and was subsequently published
in Deer Drink the Moon: Poems of Oregon (Ooligan Press, Portland State University)
and Tree Magic (Sunshine Press Publications).
Used here with the author’s permission.