It’s called the wingnut, the helicopter,
the whirligig, that little samara
autorotating down for the ground
as one-seeded dried fruit
that spins from the tree
to be dispersed by wind.
It made it past dormancy
for release to fall to germinate
to environmental whims
taking a hold of all of us.
Poem by Lynne Goldsmith
Lynne is an award-winning author of poetry and children’s books. Her poetry can recently be found in E-The Environmental Magazine, Interalia Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review.