by Jeff Oaks
one empty, one still packed with feathers–
I cannot choose between. I take them both.
The one’s stalled seed silks are so delicate
I can’t feel anything when I touch them,
a series of desires, phantoms, angels,
beginning to yellow. All the dry rattle of September
lost, twisted free or matted now,
it had its chance. It still has its chances,
I have trained myself to say over the years,
the stem stripped of everything green and beaten down.
The open pod might after all be laughing, surprised.