Among Cottonwoods
The autumn wind blows–
the storms of summer did not
drown the cottonwood.
From the hollow trunk,
monarchs fly away from death
and the coming frost.
They will return when
the soft white snowdrifts of seeds
burst forth in April.
The artist seated
at the roots will have to wait
to carve the soft wood.
Among cottonwoods,
the soul climbs and reaches out.
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~A sample of what you’ll find at my new blog, Astra Poetica~
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–Creative works are owned by the author and subject to copyright laws—
Adam Astra 