At each summer’s end, my mother would take care
to throw the seed of every milkweed pod she passed.
Their prickled crustacean shells, ripped jagged at edges
to give way to silky strings, giving thoughts of fairy hairs.
I would take care to knead them into skin,
a delicate armor, giving protection in beauty.

She did what the wind could not, giving life
to tarnished corners of the earth.
I would watch as air would lift them livid in flight,
migrating beyond like their mother-monarchs.

I wish I could spread myself as thin as milkweed.
Break open the dried out hallows of the mind,
and give thoughts as seed. Watch them dissemble
and dissipate, taken with the dance of wind.
Have them grow without my fixation, pollinate
themselves without the pain of diligence and repetition.
Make myself a mother to mindfulness.

My shell stays unbroken, virgin green, dripping
with the milk of tacit reflections,
a quiet musing.