Those feathery yellow tufts, in dense profusion.
It’s where the backroad winds along the water

They must be six feet high. And there they stood
On that September night, Cathleen, when you

And I went parking. But first my father’s green
Impala gliding between the breezy cattails

That lined the road and seemed to bow to us
As we entered that corridor of fanning plumes

And fluttering hearts… Supple the stalks that led
To the shore. Subtle the blinking runway lights

Of Logan Airport, directly across the darkness.
Fateful the flight paths lining up with the starlight.

Silky the sweep of your blond, luxuriant hair.
How long were we a couple? A couple of months?

And then we parted ways. But they will stay
Just as we left them, asway in the rearview mirror.

Until one day, while driving past some thickly
Clustered plumes in full September bloom,

It takes my breath away—recalling how softly
Such fluent, bending reeds once brushed across

The windshield of my father’s car. And shudder
To think that nearly fifty years have passed

Since we were in our teens. Yet still they teem
Along the water’s edge. Just tremulous

Enough to feel your hair.

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