Wednesday, June 01, 2005

The Sun Does

On a gravel road with a modest playground
behind the homes that face the water
marked by a tree that he recognized:
the beginning of his shoreline property
where, in spring when all is all, cattails
would shoot
straight up, mix with forsythia and salt air,
and we would pick stiff-stalked bouquets
along the edge of the property, never
venturing into its square dimensions
because of a cousin who nearly died
of Lyme disease, this being East Lyme,
where the deer ticks are plentiful
and virulent. Then we’d pile into the Chevy and
drive an hour inland, to home. On the way,
he’d say how the salt air made him ravenous and
aren’t the cattails something,
and that
was every spring for many years.