There will come a day in Autumn when the pods
open like eyes and weep into the wind little brown
teardrops that do not fall to the earth without first
being borne by strands of silken hair, white like mine,
and I who cannot fathom the god
introduced and re-introduced to me all my life
know that I must search instead for the fine
intellect, the playful imagination, the deep-felt
biophilia of the goddess who created this
tuft-winged drifter, tiny parachutist, one
among thousands, that has climbed up onto the wind,
now sails by my window, clears the fence, crosses the road without
looking both ways, floats across the barren field, up, up, caught
and flung by the Anemoi up and onward, sailing,
sailing, until the breezes abate, then, like a maestro’s arm
sweeping back and forth with the lyrical measures, lowers
itself, bit by bit, until it settles onto the earth where rains
will ruin its magnificent floss and time will rake
over it a blanket of soil. It will sleep all winter, cozy
hibernator, await the magical marriage of warmth and rain,
awaken             then reach
         with root,               then shoot,
         down,                     then up,
search for Hydro,    for Helios,       stretch.

Become.