"Some Playthings," by John Hollander

Foto: Luke Redmond

A trembling brown bird
standing in the high grass turns
out to be a blown


oakleaf after all.
Was the leaf playing bird, or
was it “just” the wind


playing with the leaf?
Was my very noticing
itself at play with


an irregular
frail patch of brown in the cold
April afternoon?


These questions that hang
motionless in the now-stilled
air: what of their


frailty, in the light
of even the most fragile
of problematic


substances like all
these momentary playthings
of recognition?


Questions that are asked
of questions: no less weighty
and lingeringly


dark than the riddles
posed by any apparent
bird or leaf or breath


of wind, instruments
probing what we feel we know
for some kind of truth.