How many wishes end this way,
like this gossamer froth of milkweed
matted with brittle brown bits.
I think of your beautiful heart,
how soft, how wounded it is.
Lately, almost everything makes me think
of your heart. I pick up
this white milkweed seed. Cradle it
in my palm, detritus and all.
I honor the beauty of your
wish. Matted as it is, bedraggled.
God, it’s so brave to wish.