As I look out the window on Fall and notice all the leaves that fell, I envision something comparable in Spring that I saw, as this poem notes.
Spring Debris
Wind sweeps fruit tree petals
into cordons where a sidewalk meets
grass like onlookers keen to see
a parade. Winged elm pips drift in;
fallen hulls shove to the front;
cottonwood fluff frustrates the view
of those already grounded. Seeds
and florets jockey for the runway's
edge. A storm-march rudely scatters
the spectators, and thunder cracks
their dream. In time, the party tossed
by the rain breeches the rolling hillside.
"Weeds not trees,"
grouse the park groundskeepers.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
