In the high plains and parks of Colorado,

seeds, as if snow, release from their Cottonwood canopy,

drifting down through lush leaves that

bow, sway, and quake under gentle summer breezes.

 

Back-lit by a white sun,

the glowing seeds come in waves,

crossing the ocean of blue above me,

seeking to grab hold,

to hang on,

to gain purchase,

on some new plot of land.

 

Most will not survive,

the air too hot, the soil too dry,

the spot already taken

by another established tree.

 

Some drift into raging creeks,

waters bank-full of snow melt from the high country.

Some drift east, some drift west,

their fate decided by the continental divide.

 

Riding currents of air or water with little control,

they hope to come to rest in some

beautiful patch of organic detritus,

where they can establish roots and grow.

 

Ancient DNA compels us all to find

our place in this world,

a place to call home,

a place to continue to be.