Milkweed calls out the poet in me.
Against the backdrop of gray grasses and tan marsh reeds, the popped open pods pull my eye. Silver-white seeds twist and spill out; drops of morning dew spangle like holiday lights.
These particular seeds remind me of a teenager hanging her hair upside down, to brush it full. There’s a sense of movement into the future, a sense of letting go into the unknown and yet beautifully seasonal, as summer gives in to autumn.
(This is for Beth and family, who have been particularly enthusiastic about photos of milkweed, with those memories of childhood fields of wildflowers.)
What do milkweed seeds call to, in you?