THOSE WHITE THINGS
They could be moths, feathers
shed by faraway swans, sheaves
of wheat from the heavens
as if the old gods still rule,
a tour group with torn wings
that must flock together
for a few days lest they miss the ride home—
Damn! Some well-meaning fool ruins my fun
by telling me they’re ordinary seed pods
from sycamore trees that return every spring.
And they become just another irritant
that reddens my eyes.