Jul 19 2018

my swamp, your swamp,
we all have a swamp

Mine lives just down the road, at the bottom of a hill I don’t climb often enough.

There are all sorts of metaphors I could spin around swamps, all sorts of things to say about current events.

Suffice it to say the last 18 months have been rough, in so many ways.

For now, the swamp is still there. It’s been a dry couple of months, so I won’t be surprised if it evaporates again this year. The fish will die, the air will smell, the herons, egrets, and vultures will have a party.

I will miss the reflection of sky as I drive by.

I will miss the serenity and the promise of intrigue that bodies of water always offer.

I will miss the geese who have nowhere to land.

I will miss the comfort of home.

I will despair, briefly, at all the mud and the loss and the injustice.
(I don’t do well with injustice).

One day it will rain again.

Puddles will grow and water will flow.

I’ll complain about the basement flooding.

The birds will return and the sun will shine and the cycle will begin, again.

At least that’s what I want to believe.

. . .

the crows wait by the side
as i skirt the puffed body
of an unfortunate car-naive groundhog

. . .

I hold my breath and keep walking,
metaphors lining my pockets.

. . .

.

.

.


Jul 16 2018

how high’s the water now, mama?

. . .

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

that refuse to stop walking

shutupshutupshutupshutup

the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement

it just keeps raining (pouring)

salt in old wounds

no time to heal

no time

time

on time

an hourglass

of sacrificial sand

it just keeps raining (pouring)

the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement

shutupshutupshutupshutup

that refuse to stop walking

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

. . .