This year the fluff of sycamore
hovers
rains
speckles
puddles
skydives past barely budding April branches
    onto lawn impatient for mowing
sticks to shoes for a lift to kitchen’s
    catch-all mats

This fluff’s seeds have little chance
of raising up bold sycamores
yet they earnestly pursue
their windblown games

much as I ponder how to juggle
unruly words to verses
knowing they’ve hardly
a chance to quicken
in printer’s ink