Pollen Report

Thus, the season descends: 
pines jaundice the wind

and April wears
its pastel yellow veil.

Thus, this abundance of dust. 
On tops of ponds it discloses

the churn of currents 
as a marbled swirl.

See where the cat has walked 
across the wicker chairs.

This stuff divulges the truth
of all that’s exposed to fresh air,

like the hood of our car.
My wife has traced our names

in the fine layer of flecks 
that settled there.

I’d know her cursive 
anywhere, and it’s moving

to see that she still does
as teenage sweethearts do,
 
her finger dragged through 
the fallen powder of pollen

with me on her mind.
Thus, as I inhale

it pulls from the breeze
all these attempts at new life.

They blend with the hope 
that hides in my chest.

I hold my breath 
and follow the path

of letters she left, 
clearing the grains

that dropped between 
her hand and mine.

The steel of the hood is revealed, 
briefly clean again.

There is another name–
I trace it below our two

then quickly wipe it away. 
The world urges rebirth

but we aren’t ready to say
what to call this daughter

once she’s born. We must
retain some secret.
 
What’s most precious
cannot be touched, not yet,

nor made more gold.
What we grow

is not allowed
to be covered in dust.