Driving a line of tooth pick trees
as the Cottonwood’s release
puffy seed ships to their fate
in the currents and
smoke from the northern fires
filters the days’ sunlight into white.
I would go through this air,
push aside the curtain to see
what I wish for; a slice of the future
and a gentled view of the past and
to stare at the universal mortar and
pestle stirring the mash of my life.
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