Milkweed

by Edie Meade

Milkweed silks a nest in my pocket, a decision made 

and turned out on a change in the wind, out

where fencelines bramble and bow. The lowly milkweed

discloses its gossamer secrets to me – to anyone,

but today it’s only me. “I haven’t shaved my legs

since Mark left for the oil fields,” I whisper,

understanding for the first time what it is I’m disclosing. 

Saying it out loud does that, somehow, for me. Blows it open.

A bramble full of fuzz. Goldfinches and monarchs 

identify beauty as modesty, utility, podded down. Courage

lifts into the sky. Survival seems so effortless out here,

no worries about what is beautiful or true

or whether the birds and bugs will come back. Their collective 

is so necessary to survival, that’s the difference. They 

need each other. “Mark is wintering over out there,” I say 

to a finch. I still can’t bring myself to say I’m wintering 

over here. The brambles nod, bird-darted. 

I tuft at the pods, find release in service of charity, wishing 

I were bold and forgiving as a weed or finch. Wishing to be 

as weightless and well-built for dispersal.