Cottonwood mists of blowsy swirl
ghost the ground and ponds
scruffing up along street sides,
an early positioning haze.
Warmth soaks up through flannels,
last try before summer. Neighbors
out for a fragile walk after surgery
keep caps on against the drifting.
Like feathers on the wind the
cotton tells of seasons move
and nature’s own rhythms
despite our distractions.
Too early, the weathercasters
opine. As on time as necessary,
nature replies. On our schedule,