June, and they stand in flowering frustration
at either end of my yard.
Cottonwoods (geneus populus) are gendered
and must be planted accordingly
to avoid the outrage of unspent catkins (desiderium).
I learned this too late to now keep seedpods
sticking to the laundered sheets I’ve strung
to dry between them like a blue provocation.
Their priapic blossoms, futilely infertile,
billow the sky, scatter across my lawn,
skulk in the corners of my garage.
By the time December snow sifts
its thin apology over trees and my domestic
putterings, I want to string my sheets, hung
cerulean between quiet and whiteness.