The Year of the Cattail

Scarcely disturbed by a dragonfly, then another, chasing
freely and unburdened by the sticking of late Summer air,
a greened pond is finally flanked by cattails racing. 

Racing upward to the sun, to blueness, to nowhere
else but the margins where they stand upright, and still
grow until they have no more to give – and so die there.

Songbirds pile in, and as bladed leaves are filled,
a thousand blackbirds huddle and sing, “Come along!”
Yet the cattail asserts itself below the weight, until

the golden days of Autumn. The season of gossip song
and tucking in tightly is observed. Spears die back
and relax to become arches, beds for when nights are long.

Green rods fade to pale straw, but life does not lack
or want for much more than the papery, layered domes.
The marsh fliers and swamp swimmers each have a knack

for crawling up and nestling in for Winter, season of home
entertainment and petty bickering. A Song Sparrow takes flight
to find respite from family, and leaves behind her phone.

It feels like not a moment later that she returns to
a week without rain. The first song declares Spring is here. 
She catches up with her relatives in the door, leaving soon.

And stepping in, she opens the window to greens folded near,
between the brush. Cattails stretch for the coming Summer year.
  

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