Summer Blizzard

The vapor left in gullies by the night,
then brushed away by dawn’s impatient hand
resemble miracles, still yet to come
and follow those inclement days in June.
The tepid morning flutters in the breeze
and cottonwoods that flank the river town,
are letting go their drying, downy seeds
with faith enough to flip the seasons ’round.
At first they fuzz, with hesitating flakes,
that float and drift, as slow as eiderdown,
and graze the blacktopped streets with ashen gauze,
reseeded on the air without a sound.
Some people do their errands through the squall,
in sleeveless shirts and air conditioned cars
and conversation blossoms on the curb, 
while snowing whiteness falls between us all.
We stay out late in solstice light and sneeze,
we’ll dream of summer blizzards in the freeze.

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