With the green-golden dust
that settles on the windowsills
before the Saturday cleaning,
come the butterfly-like petals
landing on our shirts, between
white strawberry flowers,
piles of soft pink under trees.
The air is thick. Trees drop
caterpillars on the road, blue
half-shells of robins’ eggs.
Before the end of June
the house will be coated
in pollen dust, our windows
will need washing, windowpanes
will be green as moss.
The children and I go
out in the pollen rains
and are doused in them,
stained and sneezing,
watery-eyed, thrilled.
At the end of June we will
leave you pacing in the house
in the dark room, we will drive
away in the gray morning,
pollen dust on the car windshield.
May 22, 2021