Lying under a tree’s canopy,
evening sunlight winking through its collage of leaves,
I see summer cotton
to the ground.
Three clouds drift away,
like…thought-bubbles beyond the tree’s round top.
the tree is thinking into the endless blue
of its imagination.
as if the boughs forgot to cover their mouths
before they coughed a cloud of cotton tufts into the atmosphere,
reversing the osmosis
of the crud of my allergic reaction to this broken earth
with its promise of transcendence.
I am homesick
for higher places, beyond these blue spaces,
where thought-bubbles are transportation
to my beloved,
and every white seed is a hot air-balloon ride
into his throne room.