Cattails in Wind

Think only of the phrase,
and the child in us
pictures the literal,
confident tabbies
with stiff appendages
refusing to bend
to pressure.
Or, call them bulrushes,
and imagine the matador’s
fierce adrenaline, the torn
red cape.
Get the chuckling
out of the way.

There is a ghostly beauty
in their dying,
fluff catching the breeze
like a prophet’s beard,
collecting spilled sunlight
like ocean foam.
Their seed
rides the air,
lacy prayers
blessing the glades
with a promise
of uplift,
new
emerald arrows
aimed at heaven,
poised
to conquer
antique notions
of life, of
afterlife.