Tumbleweeds

A father, good or bad, is still the root
against which progeny pulls.
When that root goes,
the young are gone with wind.

They blow like lint from cottonwoods.
They show no sense,
just go
wherever lust takes them.

They bunch in herds,
crowd highways, stack up behind fences;
and spread their seed
willy-nilly
when given chances.

Together, they become a movement.

Where thrown seed grows,
more tumbleweeds, like passion, rise up,
in their turn grow roots
from which
they will finally break free.

It’s a kind of dance,
a romance between an American plant
and the windy spaces
on plains where wind carries traces
from whence it blows.