Cotton, floating on the breeze,
falling, gently in the air;
against the canopy of trees,
in skies so blue and bare.
No clouds to mar the view,
just contrails passing by;
a morning that is new,
with scenes that make you sigh.
Like snowflakes sown in May,
they flutter to the ground;
the leaves in splendor sway,
but they do not make a sound.
The spores are fluffy, white,
they're dancing in the wind;
it's a spring-time magic sight,
around the pathway's bend.
Walks like these, are treasure,
to the mind and to the soul;
the ones we cannot measure,
but the ones that make us whole.