The world is filled with pollen–
a bloom of youth cast to wilderness
upon the breeze and berthed
within the roots of older things,
immovable objects time
withered for the show.
No highway through-way,
accumulations whiten the base
without ever touching soil, or soul–
light, oh god, where is the light–
the heady call of drifting lifeless hands,
a lightness in the weighted facets
breathless winds would howl.
Man, they say, the master of his own headwinds,
but each man floating high against the other
leaves no room to breathe.
We’ve choked it out.
Too young for nothing left to give