Around where the pines reach up to mountain
a couple children gather brown cattails,
to gather them and string them up in bales,
each bale composed of either 8 or 10.
The girl will wander into pond to pull,
with a strong desire, with a sure force,
as plow is pulled through earth by sullen horse,
to place them onto brother’s arms till full.
A silent pond where minnows grow to fish,
where a frogs loud croak, or sudden rustles
can break this stillness found in their labor,
to break and share a momentary laugh
and forget the soreness in their muscles
and slosh around in soggy shoes they wore.
A girl of seven wears light blue short sleeve,
a boy of four who wears his baseball cap
who holds a bale of cattails on his lap,
the longer stems create a loose knit weave.
This act, serious as childhood can be,
a need to collect such beauty to store
moments to pass at a glance, life’s long tour,
a pond with cattails as the eye can see.
As minnows say farewell to each green stem,
away in vase made of paper and glue,
this day in the sun, these two play in pond,
these bales of cattail childhoods requiem
or a reimagined portion of shoe
floating in mountain waters view beyond.
As children’s past becomes their present tense,
they walk with arms full of bundles and bales,
a historic day to play in cattails,
each foot step on path a practice in sense.
As animal clouds float over their heads
and dragonfly holds itself still in air
each child carries a large portion thats fair
through blues, browns, and green, some silver and reds.
At home their Mom will cut down a portion
of stem to fit in a colorful vase
and thank the two children with a soft hug.
To release cattail seed in on motion
a cloud of cotton to fly and erase
all cares of tomorrow with a slight shrug.