To Seed, And Yet

 

To Seed, and Yet,

 

and yet, the unsown

heads of dandelions

grey and splayed

on their hollow stocks

dot the lawn, paused

following their short

shot of blossom

for the most open breath

of wind to send them,

leaning into seed now,

into their imminent

 

departure.

 

Who thinks about them then,

beneath and between

the unmown grasses, unseen? 

Their now pale

saffron faces have been left

to resume their own fading,

like fog or mist resumes,

once it is lifted or pinched

by heat and wind,

 

yes, to be again undistilled

in the distance by the gravity

of loam and moment,

once the pollinators have obtained

and had their way

and come and gone

 

Because spring opens

her own horned

cornucopia, made (maybe

 

as her way to mock the shock

of last month’s winter

blizzard) of lace and grace

and a swift divination

read in the powdered pollen

the bee washes her

aging ageless face with