It’s easier, perhaps, to understand the acorn.
A shell. A cap. Something tender inside
with the potential to grow a great oak.
But cotton? Harder to understand the tiny seeds
wrapped in white gossamer strands—
tiny parachutes that slip through hands.
So few survive, but those that do
live a hundred years and grow faster
than any other American tree.
They’re like ideas—weightless. Able
to travel long distances. Mostly disposable,
but then once in a while,
one of the 25 million seeds
released by a tree will take root.
I’ve felt it happen inside me—
how it starts so small. How quickly
it grows, changes the landscape. How soon
you can’t imagine the world any other way.