Wind shakes down the trees and our world is gilded
with spruce pollen, bigger than other pollens. It coats
rakes, the grill, lawn chairs. I write SPRUCE POLLEN
on my rear window so other drivers don’t think I’m a slob.
In spider webs, spun gold. Freckles on the baby’s eyelashes.
Pollen-drunk, a bee circles the tree trunk with the broken limb
whose shadow looks like an owl. Five fawns gambol
in yellow clouds like children spelling words with their bodies.
by Elizabeth Kerlikowske
Editor’s Note: Gorgeous imagery transports the reader of this poem into a world where every sneeze is worth it.