Catkins of poplar trees

Neither a flower nor not a flower; no one cares. They fall all over the yard and lane, wastefully, their pollen everywhere, and make my eyes water. Eyes closed, wind blows across thousands of miles. I dream of lovers until an oriole sings from the trees. I’m not dismayed by the wasted catkins, but someone needs to rake them up. They say if they fall in a pond, they become duckweed. After a rain, they are too heavy to blow away— two parts dust and one part rainwater.