Pollen Day

The blossoms of the sun inlay
The sky with dots today,
          Damask ocelots that stain
          The world with peacock rain,
Sooty tesserae that plaid
The pastures with their freckled fad,
          As if the yellow fields had strayed
          Into blizzards of gold braid,
As if whole towns might hinge
On one specific daisied tinge,
          The iridescent marbles of the soil
          Spackling meadows with tin foil,
Summer’s hormones in denial,
Determined to go out in style,
          Hyperthyroid plants that spatter
          Fields and roofs with primal batter,
Striping mountains with the veins
Of next year’s optimistic grains:
          So finally it’s pollen season,
          Nature’s sleep of sullen reason,
When the rush of August showers
Knocks the stamens out of flowers,
          Where rationale is out of fashion
          And the ruling sense is brindled passion;
Where the air is filled with irised flour
And the aspens flicked with baby powder-
          Trees preoccupied with having sex,
          Which they do with checkered flecks
That, programmed to be obsolete,
Scatter on the shoals of wheat
          Mosaics of those sunfish specks
          Which beach at last upon our decks,
Embroidering the parquet at our feet
With a kind of future heat,
          Imposing on our wood foundation
          This short-lived pastel propagation:
Not exactly what the genes intended
When, to father genius, they ascended.

December 29th, 1993
February 24th, 1994, Tippet Alley