Parachutes

A nonchalant wind
Preens and unpreens the poplars.
Dove–feathered clouds
Roost with the moon.
The river runs unworried
With a blackbird tune.
Somewhere — in the wind's mind — a weed
Has loosed its fruits,
And from the fingers of the air
The parachutes
Drift without hurry to the earth.

Then fret no more; on nights like these
We must give slip to urgency
And catch forgetfulness–in–seed
Under the poplar trees.