Song of the Cottonwoods

The summer voice of the cottonwoods

lies transparent in baby breaths

on the water.

It floats in faint wisps

in the channels and along the shoreline.

In the evening at the water’s edge,

you can dip your hands into the shallows

and catch a whisper,

a single syllable of promise.

There is sacredness in words unspoken,

in such fragile potential that moves,

as it will,

in the breeze.

And at dawn when the day is a rosy glaze

upon the lake,

there are filaments so fine

that they are lost in the light.

This is the song of the cottonwoods.

Shannon Vesely