Pine Pollen

Puffs of yellow dust erupt from wind-blown arms of pines
and those yellow grains let loose to the sky,
sprinkling wings and earth and water.
are packed with blueprints for brand new beings.
They are love letters to existence.

Something inside the cells of every cone of every tree
wants to keep this all rolling –
not just the pines
but also the bear rubbing his back against cracked and furrowed bark,
the owl nesting in the hollow,
the squirrel guarding her stash,
the song rising in the grove.

Something force inside the cells of every cone of every tree
commits to scattering potential life all over this place
and what seems like excess peppers the leaves,
dissolves on tongues, jack up the feral ones with vitamins and androgens,
urging the procreant urge,

and yes, it coats our windshields,
yes, it makes you sniffle and speckles my keyboard,
but God, I love a good testament to Love.

I’m not sleeping tonight—why should I?
The loons are singing across the lake,
pollen in my hair, on my skin,
and the stars above in their never-ending abundance.

I stumble in darkness over grass, gravel, and stone  
down to the water.
I plunge into ink and silver—

sensing dense constellations of pollen even here, underwater,
tapping my face as I swim out and wonder –

what pine-like giants
are on the shores of the black sea overhead,
shaking their manes

and shedding stars?