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.
