Bullrush Blossom

I'm just trying
to find a narrow way
between the gold bubbles
and the technology rushes.
Just like
when I was a boy
and not yet medieval,
and not yet obsolete.
I walked from our home
to the fence by the freeway
looking for a small space
to squeeze past
and make my way
to the shoulder
where the narrowleaf cattail
swayed in the traffic's wake.
All I wanted
was a blossom from the stalk,
to hold,
to have for my own.
But to let anyone know
what I had gained
would reveal where I had been
and
shed the ever curious light
of authority
on meandering motives,
on wondered wanderings.
I never told a soul
until now.
I kept the blossom hid
just for me
in the child's shoebox
under the bedroom windowsill.
It never comes easy.
The world seems like
a panoply of distraction
and the pendulum clock
ever swings the minutes
away and gone.
Like that bullrush
the real doesn't
beg affirmation from
silicon ghosts.
It sits
outside of reach,
often overlooked
and waiting
for someone who can find
that slender path
through the fences
and the roar of traffic.
I'm searching.
I still
wander and wonder.
This time though,
I think I'll share
the soft caress
of the bullrush blossom
that sways patiently
in the forgotten median
while the world
dashes by.