The smell of cottonwood buds comes rushing through the open window,
A sweet vanilla balsam reminder that it is spring now,
I'm late for work.
Breakfast is a ancient memory.
Salty bacon and creamy glide of yolk,
I remember you like old friends who never visit.
Its all rush rush now, coffee and coffee up and at 'em,
Shuffle girls off to school,
Commute, work, unappreciated, commute, cook, clean, etc.
I want to run away, to the river
To wrap my arms around a cottonwood tree,
Tickle my tongue across
The dew on its spade shaped leaves,
Press my cheek against its bark, memorizing
Its particular roughness until I can tell it by touch alone, Listen closely until I hear the rhythmic flow of its xylem and phloem
Deftly transporting nutrients and water from roots to crown, Look with an eye keen enough to see its cellular divisions, The inner workings of its chloroplasts, diligently converting starshine into sugars
Absorb its language and intelligence,
Growing ever steadfast,
My toes deeply submerged in cool Willamette waters.
|Populus patchwork--Cottonwood leaves in the Fall|