A seedpod floats down like a feather
from the ironwood trees
where nattering grackles battle,
now lies curled in my hand
like a carpenter’s shaving.
Held up to light, it has the sheen of pale yellow silk,
the texture of two pieces of parchment
pressed face to face, hemmed by an uneven pattern
picked out in delicate brush strokes
dipped in the color of old blood.
I pinch the seedpod’s stem and spin it
like a pinwheel’s blade.
A dozen oval seeds lined up
spine-like through the middle
rattle like a happy baby’s toy.
I trace fingertips over these dark dots
parsing out a message I can’t decipher—
this embryonic code of things to come,
this Braille for things unborn.
(originally published by When Women Waken)
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