The Helicopter

The helicopter,
a sort of controlled silver leaf
dropped lightly into the clearing.
The searchlights swung, the little girl,
the little girl was crying, her mother, a girl herself,
was giving birth, the forest dropped birdseeds of milk.
Then the helicopter lifted away,
the mother rested.

Like him who came to us empty-handed,
who came, it seemed, with nothing,
Joseph Cornell— making
a shoebox universe to put it all in.