I like to catch the seeds of the fireweed as they drift past my face.
I let them land on my palm, as deceptively delicate as silk spun from titanium.
We have few words in our language to speak of the strength of soft things.
Of things that pass gently, without violence or agitation, but whose journey is all the more difficult and treacherous for the fragile shells they inhabit.
We are all fragile at our core.
It is the ability to rise above our weaknesses, to catch the current upwards, that makes for stories that persist long after we have vanished into the atmosphere.
I sometimes think of fireweed when I write.
I think of holding their seed fluff against my skin.
I think of raising my hand to my mouth.
I use my softest breath to send the strongest fragility out into the world.