A maple seed soars aloft in a sunny breeze.
A fledgeling falcon leaves the nest to meet his destiny.
A golden autumn leaf goes sailing from the tired trees,
As ashes scatter to the winds and drop into the sea.
Where am I now? What does it mean?
These things that are and that have been?
How strange the earth, so welcoming,
For a weary raven's wings.
But time's breath shall not be denied,
And never rests the raging tide.
And so forever ride the sky,
To weave and dance until you die.
Will Boreas release my soul
To partake of the fields below,
Or through the ragged snowy peaks,
Will my spirit follow?
Names are whispered in the wind.
Most of them the mind forgets,
But for a few who grow thus fainter,
Mourning filled with deep regrets.
Sights astound the lofty seeker,
But never home and never haven,
Distant views of distant lands
For the storm-embattered raven.
But know one day a time will come,
For all to fold their weary wings,
And rest beneath the aged maple,
Heedless of time's reckoning.
George Chadderdon © 1993