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 w...
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