Swamp

The marshes are calling,
colored gray and hushed in obscure fog.
The rushes’ susurrus seduces
as they hiss by my windows and blur.
Their restlessness passes through me,
painting my with longing
that dries and crackles on my skin.

I belong here,
covered in the dirt and water,
picking bristly cat-tails for my hair
and feathered reeds to deck my home,
perfumed by the stink
of regenerative rot.

Amber and sunlit
or muted by a shrouded sky,
the river’s body
makes a becoming bed.

March 2012

Posted from WordPress for Android

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