A Woman's View of Cattails

by SL Ruth

I sit alone on the windswept deck
my rocker soothing the emptiness
in my heart; inches from my bare feet
wild cattails, rooted at water's edge,
browned velvet cylindrical tubes,
shimmy immodestly as they launch
wispy, fertile spores in the rosy
blush of the rising sun, sowing their
seeds on the glow of the pink morning.

Sun warms, penetrates my cold body
and the evaporating mist rises
lifting off the glistening lake;
thick tufts of virgin cat fur play
dancing on thermals, swirling, spinning,
like passengers on a carousel
riding rhythms from a calliope.

Fuzzed spermatophytes, seek new life,
hesitate, almost flirting with earth
before commencing the spiral that
sends them plummeting down, softly down,
toward the embracing flush of earth;
soldiers projectiled on one single
flight in tiny and frayed hot air
balloons that drift, drift, drift then alight

Licking and coating all the wet world
with a downy gauze of pristene white,
the feathered, fairy seeds pirouette,
stick in my hair, and on my cheeks,
on gentle currents of dark water,
roughened cypress bark, or mossy bank,
in the beautiful ritual born
of summer's heat, and a natural
passion that leaves me breathless.

The wanton cattails sway seductively
with no signs of fear, or loneliness.
I see all, rocking still, as a fresh
breeze lifts the ruffle on my nightgown
to bare my lily knees and impart
an envy that leaves me a warmed,
but reluctant witness of life's
eternal round even for cattails.