I want to fly away,
As I stand here twisting the clover,
The spinning, green propeller
Between my forefinger and thumb.
The clouds are slow today,
Morphing into animals
Migrating across the serenity of the blue,
Erasing the day, leaving a black board
To be speckled at night.
This old maple wants to fly too,
Lunging to join
His wayward leaves, but
Like me, is rooted to the ground,
Left cold and alone, to look at me.