The Whirlybirds Pod

Death is falling through the air like a maple tree's whirlybird pod. Why does it 'switch on the wind' mid-air? Right then left, why does it maraud? As we see its flurry, never in a hurry in the wind, almost giving up hope that still might fly away timely, that still might somehow elope. It switches with a heavy hearts morass it swirls, it falls - it falls - it falls until it empties the last grains of our hourglass until it takes root in the quiet hearts shrill. Death is falling through the air. And is its soul like the first tangible leaf? In the heat of the maple's glowing flare is it whirling up on that first step of the stairs? Oh, whirlybird pod, show us you're grief. Show us deep in your roots, you care. Oh, whirlybirds-pod, share with us your beliefs. Show us through your roots; we too shall forbear.