Seeds of Spring
We are together, this first day of spring,
the equinox signaling a balance
for a fleeting moment of time.
The common milkweed blooms only briefly, and never until the second year.
We climbed up the hill to the train trestle, the spring winds lifting us.
I was drawn to unending tracks, the danger of it all, the view from up high;
you were fearful of the structure, unsure of your footing,
certain a train would come.
I wanted to fly. You wanted to root.
Seeds can float and fly and have been reported to survive at least 3 years buried in soil.
The bridge held us briefly until we crossed the tracks
and climbed down to walk beside the river.
At the confluence of the Scioto and the Olentangy,
we found them: hardened pod shells,
clattering in the wind,
split open, empty-barren.
Reaching up and lowering the branch,
you helped me pick the shell off the vine and examine it.
I sang out, giddy to find such beauty, awed by its mystery.
Seed pods are 3-5 inches long, 1 inch wide, and shaped like a long teardrop.
We walked further and found more pods
clinging to the dried, twisted vines.
I caught my breath when seeing one
half-split with white fluff bursting out of it.
Again, you helped me to pick it,
as if you were the maker of these marvels
and these were your gifts.
Mature pods turn brown and split open lengthwise revealing a shiny yellow inner surface and releasing numerous brown seeds that are ¼ inch wide, and have long, silky tufts of white hair attached to one end.
Holding the pod up to the wind, I watched the seeds
parachute from the shell and float
weightlessly.
It has been estimated that a single common milkweed plant can produce 25 fruits and each fruit contains as many as 450 seeds.
A westward wind is pulling you to a faraway place;
the coming of spring marks the beginning
of our last seasons here,
before the milksap-drying autumn splits us
and we are propelled
from one season into the next
powerless against the perpetual motion of time.
Entwined, we drifted toward the car,
the air filled with cotton-hairs of silk
some caught in clumps on the brush near the water.
In Ohio, along the river, we planted our roots;
where will the wind take us tomorrow?
Roots can grow 13 feet deep and the length of horizontal roots can increase up to 10 feet in a single season. A piece of root about 1 inch in length can produce a new plant.
Even though I’ve lived half my life without you,
it seems you’ve been here all along.
For this is our second year…
this time we will bloom;
our seeds are numerous and will be scattered.
With rain and rivers, sun and seasons…
we will continue to be
safe within our teardrop pod,
balanced
between the setting of the moon
and the rising of the sun...
pregnant with silvery-white wisps of lightness.