• Like warm snow drifting
    down from cottonwood trees
    to land softly among the green grass
    and dame's violets.

    I watch the feather-light
    play of fleecy seeds on the breeze
    that teasingly dress my hair and shoulders
    in white gossamer.

    Dad laughs to see me
    framed by kitchen window
    like a painting of a girl, dreamy
    eyed child of July.

    If I stay here all day
    I wonder if, in my home's shadow,
    I would be buried under a blanket
    of fluffy cotton.