Like Cottonwood Fluff

Like Cottonwood Fluff

(“And above all things be earnest in your love among yourselves, for love covers a multitude of sins.” 1 Peter 4:8)

Toss it into the air and let it float back down
like dandelions or cottonwood fluff, till it surrounds
the day like childlike joy. There is more than enough
to spare. There are voices in the air that call like
church-bells
to announce a new canticle for each doubtful heart.
The starting place is clear, the finish is certain,
but our steps in between demand a lighter hand.
A mother stays home, no gas in the car, and needs
to take her daughter to the doctor. And the breeze
blows as it will
until anonymous help finds its way under the door.
A father fears he has ruined a son with words that
should have been held back. But like a bursting dam
they escaped his mouth, burning the boy’s smile that
used to, unbidden, break the monotony of the grind. He
wished he could take it back, unwind the tone he
never meant. Don’t we all give vent at the worst
possible moments? He feared he was losing his job,
losing his mind, fusing shame and guilt he unloaded
it all in an unintentional moment. He was certain the words
went deeper than all the thousands before. He would
take the fire into his own bosom if he could.
And yet, last Christmas, every family game was punctuated
with laughter, and he began to believe in forgiveness again.

We all dream until there is nothing left to dream.
We all wait until the last moment, but love should never
wait at all.
Born of love (the Parent of us all) and dying at last
(the new Jerusalem) we pave our way (Via Dolorosa)
between aches and joy. And most of us could use
at least one more friend.

Spotlight on the Dandelions

Spotlight on the Dandelions

(“No one takes a light and puts it under a bowl or hides it. Instead, he puts the light on a lampstand so that the people who come in can see.” Luke 11:33)

Spotlight on the dandelions,
the unusual manes that push toward the sun.
The petals, tiny and golden, are imperfect like
the best artwork. Embellishing cracks in the sidewalk,
ants crawl past them and dig tunnels below their stretching
roots.
They smell like lawns after spring’s first mowing. They rarely
catch our attention, but they have so much to show.
They draw the secrets of the soil through opalescent stems
and wait for the next late-night thunderstorm to shake them awake.
And wait for the next rising of the sun to bid them rise
and shine.
Who knew they also make a delicate wine?
Some neighbors pluck them like weeds.
Some children ignore them playing with puppies.
They are disorderly invaders to some and
inspiration for a toddler’s bouquet presented to Mom.

Sit with one for an hour,
count the petals, caress the jagged leaves.
Listen to the freshening breeze and watch it
sway atop its sturdy stem. Does it remind you of
a picnic with a lover,
a wildwood meadow,
time without measure,
length without answers?

How many wishes have been granted as they
end their life cycle as flying pods of seeds?
How old were you when you wised upon your first one,
and how old shall you be when you blow the dandelion seeds
toward a distant reverie?