Emptying Milkweed Pods by Annette Gagliardi

Emptying Milkweed Pods

rattle proclamations.

Seeds rise from an

open-mouthed surprise;

roar through town

like waves on the wind,

whistling as they fly   — skyward.

I pretend not to hear —icicles in deep conversation,

at the edge of the eves.

The midnight moon swoons

too soon into my window;

I surrender to the winter

chill. Against my will, I climb

across window sill and slide into

bed, rest my weary —

and head to sleep as if my life

depended on icicles and swooning moons

riding the night, informing as they go.

Milkweed seeds tap a message on my

window while I hide beneath

the warmth of winter’s denial.