Floating pearl drops fill the air

Cottonwood orgasms released on the wind

Flurried fecundity

I try not to inhale

Walking through clouds of dancing potential

These are thirsty trees

That belly up when the doors open

Reaching new highs every day

As interested in drinking and sex as most bar room patrons

And like them a little soft

Their wood isn’t prized for much

They tend to fall over when cold winds roar

To be replaced by next year’s crop

Who look to be about the same

Getting high and drinking as much as they can

Then spilling their seed

Unconcerned about conversations or relationships



David Trudel  ©  2013



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