There’s a marshland where I come from –
Wet and slowly dying as aren’t we all and yet,
Still full of life like flying
Egrets and alligators roaming ‘round
Down in the bowels of this bog
And that’s not all.
Pink and purple lilies and fern grow tall
With bees buzzing, singing, pollinating
Wildflowers here and there
And other unseen forces in the air. Impossible
To describe them all, however,
As they may be partly mystical and partly weather.
Causing me to sit and daydream in this
Misty marshland waste, waiting
For summer to end and winter
To take its place.