Asclepias syriaca
This is the new year, the season
when paisley-shaped pods
turn from celadon to ash-brown
and split clamwise,
releasing their silk. Each pod
holds up to one hundred seeds.
Each seed has its ghostly
fragile panicle, large enough
to contain hope, which spreads
on a gust. I imagine the relief,
the halving and shedding,
as the Prophet Micah
instructs us to cast our sins
into the depths of the sea.
The opened pods look like boats,
thin-skinned dugouts
sailing toward a shore
replete with next year’s
monarch eggs. How those caterpillars
love the bitter cardenolides,
store them up in their flesh.
Milkweed’s Latin name
honors Asklepios, Greek God
of medicine. What is toxic
to some, is sustenance to others.
