Mary Beth Hines

Flying, Falling

An unforeseen season, drought,
the red maple seized and spun off
a whirlwind, flurries of samaras
wheeling through splintered light
like the hover of hummingbirds
that sparred over the Zinnias
the summer my husband
crashed to the floor clasping
his still-smoking pipe, his chest, my wrist.

I gloomed for weeks then flew
from one grown son to another
like one of those feathered berries
dropping, reeling, rifling
for survival, aiming for soil
but landing in sand, on blacktop,
in a hungry house gutter, too late
to sprout, compelled to faith,
to sit tight and wait.

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