Floating pearl drops fill the air
Cottonwood orgasms released on the wind
Flurried fecundity
I try not to inhale
Walking through clouds of dancing potential
These are thirsty trees
That belly up when the doors open
Reaching new highs every day
As interested in drinking and sex as most bar room patrons
And like them a little soft
Their wood isn’t prized for much
They tend to fall over when cold winds roar
To be replaced by next year’s crop
Who look to be about the same
Getting high and drinking as much as they can
Then spilling their seed
Unconcerned about conversations or relationships
David Trudel © 2013
