It snows here in May

With the cottonwoods growing riverside

Where the water shines the clouds orange

And I walk with the sun on my shoulders

And the mourning dove heeds a warning

That the floating seed of the cottonwood

Has drifted long down the river

And it’s pace and gentle flying

Is the pace of all time drifting down from upstream

And a seed settles by my shoe

And asks if I know if this is the place to dig into the ground

To unfold its shoots of green leaves and roots

Or perhaps

Further down?

And I look down at the snowflake—

The seed of giants meandering onward—

And tell it that I am trying to figure the same question.