When he picked one, he twirled it

to a friend’s chin and she to his.

Always gold dabbed them both

butter lovers. Any pale fluffs

of seed that floated by

they caged in fingers

and sent breath and wants into

before opening their hands

to watch them dwindle

down the wind, the years.

Up through every lawn,

they rise again, hers,

where she bends to pick

each white globe by its stem

and carry it as carefully

as wedding crystal to the trash,

while he strides across his

in time with his neighbors,

cranking out white, semicircle sprays

of chemical-smelling granules.

Back and forth they go, breathing

the ghosts of their wishes.