Garden Child

The Norway maple in the garden behind the little blue house in the village has splendid leaves and multitudinous children tucked in, here and there and everywhere. As Cassie and I watch, the maple children go spiralling away in the morning breeze to fall somewhere else and spring up in a grove place of their own choosing.

Norway maples are not native to my garden or the village either, but we've always been fond of their shape, of their bronze and purple leaves as big as serving platters, of the texture of those leaves and the way they rustle in the wind.

There is something soothing and very hopeful about so many maple children up there above our heads, waiting to become free and to explore the great wide world. Legions of tiny gliders, they are longing to try their wings.