Reeking reeds

Our endeavor comes sometimes to this, so many reeking reeds. Not that I would wish it otherwise. Nor is there shame in their rhizomatic work — making sense and fertile compost of our leavings, our stories beached here like so many resplendent hulls, crosswise to the thrashing waves. Gathering in all edges, their bloom is one of involuntary release, the winter from whose ashes belief can only spring.