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.