My husband had shoulder surgery this year and is looking at another.  He is not happy with the idea of being incapacitated and so we work together on the yard work. 

Yesterday he was certain he could mow the front yard with the new ZTR mower he bought this time last year.  So, I tried to help him. We moved things around in the garage so he could get to it and once it was out, he really had no trouble at all making wide circles and keeping the shoulder as inactive as possible. 

Until the Cottonwood began to fall in blizzards. It stuck to sweaty bodies, flew up our noses, and stuck in our hair.  Once it quits for the year, we’ll have to have our air conditioner serviced which will look like it is covered in thick woolen batting. We’ve been here before. The neighbor next door has a 100-year-old Cottonwood tree, and it loves the spring when it can show it still has what it takes.

After coming in covered in the white fluff I was inspired to write a poem to express my feelings.  

COTTONWOOD WRANGLER

Balls of white gossamer fluff roll across the prairie

And The gardener watches the blizzard in vain.

In true Oklahoma form a funnel of cotton rises into the air on my front porch

I watch knowing nothing can be done until the Cottonwood is spent.

Each spring between Mother’s Day and June, huge puffballs fall from the sky

And the neighbor’s 100-year-old tree once more springs to life to procreate.

Seeds set out on cotton wings – some the size of my hand – and drift into corners

Motivated to growing into a tree like its mother.

And I, the gardener, become a wrangler of Cottonwood babies

Scooping the balls into dust pans and securing them.

I slam down the lid as half escape into the air before they are dumped into trash cans

Headed for the landfill where their dreams of treedom might come true.

So much for gardening. What are you reading this week?