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.