Flinging Poems Into Wind

We seine them up like dust in pollen-stained hands, briefly weight them, balancing them in minds, determining worth, profundity. And like those before, we toss them absently into wind— winnowing maple seeds— whirling them from us— as we shape lives, change destinies. Now, they seem to flit to nothingness, like us— pale night insects pestering opal moons, infestations of night thickly settling on the liquid glass of our tongues.