Butterfly Tongue Trees

The butterfly trees are rolling out their
spiraled tongues made full with winter's slumbering secrets
releasing their tiny umbrella seeds to fly.
A cotton tree somewhere is shedding it's coat,
like dandruff raining down across the cityscape.
I put my tongue out, inner seasons askew,
the tiny balls look like crystals, snowflakes from the Southern hemisphere.
But no, the cotton trees have merely spun their chrysalises overnight
and at midnight they explode into dehydrated snow, fluff you can grab in your fists
and rub against your cheek like milkweed or kitten's fur.

What are those trees called that make this? I asked a young woman with old eyes
a gypsy with beautiful long hair
and skirts patched together with memories and stolen thread.
It comes on the wind, was all she said.
When the cotton fills the air of Santiago, it comes on the wind.