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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.