Illustration by Patterson Clark. The New York Times

The Milkweed Pod
for Don Welch

The milkweed pod,
having spent itself through summer months,
explodes.
Its summer soul has burst.
The cocoon of its husk
looses fine, white floss into the air,
autumn’s lace,
its sheerest veil.

The bridegroom awaits.
He mourns not the passing colors:
the green and goldenrod,
the fields of burnished bronze.
He will not mistake his bride
in the brittle brown of this earthy shell,
will not kneel in the presence
of this absence.

For the filaments of love are whiter,
stronger cords of life than stem or stalk.
They dance where others sleep,
they sing such songs of wind and light
the world has never known.

There will be such songs in late October
when the milkweed pod opens,
giving its last breath to love,
wedding its soul to sky.

Shannon Vesely

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/special/metro/urban-jungle/pages/120925.html