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Every year

 

 

Every year I write about the cottonwood seeds

& perhaps they all begin like this.

 

I don’t remember anymore now my life

Has become this poem in endlessly revisited segments

 

In which each time, I seem to recompose Spring.

Sitting beneath my tenuous patio umbrella

 

I note their slow cream drift, the mesmeric

Entry & exit and that knot at the core of fluff,

 

A transported hope.

How productive they are!

 

Zagging across asphalt, skimming the tips

Of pine trees, minuscule loam seekers

 

While I am generally lacking words today

Or feel that those words have little place

 

To land maybe – some self-conscious human angst –

As those tight & soft ships just take to their moment & go. 

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