Always I have been a cottonwood in May, when the swollen pod bursts and everywhere the air goes white, all lawns returning winterward under that burden of yearning seeds that long for lodging anywhere and by the million die in flight into the river, pavement, alleys, air. Now I must learn to be the island instead which grew itself by grains from the bed of the farewell river, lasting by staying put and gathering whatever stuck ---- collecting things the world thought were no good, squeezing filth and death and junk so tight they fused into a single stone that struck sparks, the leaping green of cottonwood.
