Maple Seeds

When Seasons Slip Quietly Into Memory

Sometimes memory plays tricks on us. I’ve always associated the whirling seeds of maple trees with autumn, though they fall in spring. Maybe it’s the cool air, or the way seasons blur as we look back. This poem grew out of that small slip of memory—how time reshapes what we remember, and how sharing a simple moment, like tossing maple seeds with my daughter, can feel like both past and present folding together.

MAPLE SEEDS

The twirling whirlers twist to the ground
and land at my feet.
Long ago, at the bus stop as a child,
I gathered as many as I could,
threw them high into the air,
and watched red and green blades spin,
dancing their way down around me.

This memory feels like fall,
though the trees drop their seeds in spring.
Funny how the mind stores itself—
a single moment stamped with
smells, tastes, even whole seasons.
Over time, memories age with us.
The reel shifts, blurs,
spring in Connecticut becoming autumn.

I zip my coat against the May chill,
step beneath the maple’s crown,
gather a fistful of helicopters.
On the porch, my daughter at my side,
we toss them into the air—
watching them spin,
she laughs as if the world itself
had just remembered how to fly.