My father keeps samara seeds
safe inside
small matchboxes.
He holds his hand
out to me,
a seed in his bark-like palm.
This seed has wings
like a dragonfly.
I’ve had it for so many years
that I don’t know
if she will want to see the light.
I touch one of her wings
and it breaks.
Don’t worry, son, I have
many seeds of this kind.
How did he become
this tender man
who gathers seeds
and dries leaves
between book pages?
In my childhood
he was a silent god
who had no pity
on my brother and me.
As I step out of his kitchen
my brother steps in like a cat,
and in a quiet voice
he tells my father:
Stop collecting trash.
I tell my father I have to go,
my flight will leave
the city at noon. When I arrive in the north
this seed will feel the cold
and awaken in its light.
