Maples by Gwen E Owen

Maples

In my yard a forest
of seedlings sprouts among
the blades of grass,
in the fissures and canyons
of the driveway,
between the pavers,
weaving into the chain link fence.

I pluck them,
imagining they could someday
shove aside the car
upheave the pavement
and lift my house into the
canopy.

Already there
within each flimsy shoot:
the shade it will cast,
its autumn color
and bare winter branches.

Now,
when I lean in very close I see
tiny birds
flying branch to branch,
tiny squirrels
spiraling the slender trunks,
tiny children
building tree forts and there –

a tiny woman and her tinier dog
are walking in the shade.

After a while
she pauses and rests
her back against the smooth green
and gazes up into the blue
of my eye.

She marvels
at the big beautiful world
while her tiny dog whines
for her to keep
moving.

by Gwen E Owen

Editor’s Note: A surreal poem feels appropriate for the surreal beauty of this autumn season.

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