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Pine Pollen
by Haleh Liza

Puffs of yellow dust erupt from the wind-blown arms of pines
and those yellow grains let loose to the sky,
sprinkling the wings of dragonflies,
are packed with blueprints for brand new beings.

They are love letters to existence.

Something inside the cells, inside the cones, of every tree
wants to keep this all rolling—
not just the pines,
but also the bear rubbing his back across the cracked furrowed bark,
the owl nesting in the hollow,
the squirrel scurrying down a limb,
and the song rising in the grove.

Something inside the cells, inside the cones, of every tree
commits to scattering the possibility of life all over this place,
and what seems like excess
dissolves on our tongues,
peppers the foliage with androgens and vitamins,
jacks us all up with the fire to carry on, and yes,
it coats our windshields,
yes, it makes you sniffle and speckles my keyboard,
but God, I love a good testament to love!

I'm not sleeping tonight.
Why should I?
The loons are singing across the lake,
pollen still in my hair and on my skin,
and the stars above—
just as abundant.

I stumble in the darkness over grass, gravel, and stone down to the water.
I plunge into the ink and silver,
circled by the pines,
feeling dense constellations of pollen even here,
swirling underwater, the tiny grains
tapping my face as I swim out and wonder:

What pine-like giants are on the shores of the black sky
overhead, shaking their manes
and shedding stars?




 

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