Cottonwood

 

Late May, early June—

It happens, every year.

 

The cottonwood drifts down,

White fluff rains from the sky, in the clear blue day—

Settling along curbsides,

Floating outside my window,

White heaps at the edge of the lawn.

God blows a kiss from his giant dandelions.

 

Last year, the children ate end-of-year barbeque and danced

Across Chapel Green at Breck School.

Dancing with the cottonwood,

Swirling to the Beatles, played by the teacher band.

We drank cold lemonade, ate oatmeal cookies.

 

Now, the whole world showers white—

And now we stay home.

Afraid, and wearing masks.

 

Summer came quickly,

As it always does in Minneapolis.

 

It is 90 degrees.

The air is thick and heavy—

A knee pressed on my neck.

I cannot breathe.

 

You, cottonwood tree—

Your irony is not lost on me.

You, white fluff raining from the sky

Tragic beauty,

You are all I know—

You, the white baggage piled high at my curb.