Pollen in June

Poetry

Pollen in June is summer’s snow,

sticking to my sweat.

 

Pollen in June is a gentle snowstorm 

coating the swings, the strollers, and slides.

 

The playground is full of mothers and their children,

wearing bright cotton t-shirts and shorts,

wearing sunglasses to watch the kids,

wearing pollen in their hair.

 

A father bats at the pollen like a bear. 

 

A couple walks on the trail. 

They are holding hands,

speaking loud enough only to hear each other;

preserving the world between them.

 

Pollen in June plays baseball on the empty diamond.

An elderly couple sits in the dugout, 

the man holds a wooden cane, his wife’s hands are tinted orange from peeling and handling carrots.

There is a flannel shirt tied around her waist, her nose is tilted upward like a cat sniffing the air.

 

A few pieces of soft pollen sneak through the window of my car.

One grazes my face, gets stuck on an eyelash.

I pull it from my face and set it free into the wind as I drive.

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