FUZZ

I cannot see it, but

somewhere nearby stands a cottonwood

with rustling, sparkling leaves,

deep, spreading roots,

long, rough barked branches

and  cotton snow

drifting through the air,

sticking to bricks on the front porch,

attaching to the back umbrella,

floating atop the sprinkler water filling the morning gutters,

catching in my hair,

packing into the corners of those screens not shredded by the recent hail,

and clogging drains,

clogging nostrils,

clogging the breath of all those allergic

to the simple things of Spring.