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Pollen
You see it as summer begins
to shimmer on the rims
of ponds, in rifts
in stone where ants assume
their awesome responsibilities,
on eaves of Victorian mansions
limned with last light-
pale curtains sweeping
among the generous trees,
messages sent between green
families, greetings
before the heat strikes us
too lazy to speak, or even
nod in the sullen breeze,
surging across the vast
expanses of lawns, past
new screens, tumbling
through rich stories of air
to dust floors, mirrors,
every surface with a frail
film where a boy can trace
his name, then raise
: the finger to his lips
to taste the feathery
light, the bright ash, the yellow
powder etching the whorls
of his finger's tip with mild
fire, incandescence,
this swollen glimmer, loose
spirit, the hours' aura,
the plush, allusive
tremble of pollen.