Walk across winterbit fields
down to the teeming swamp
every step drops, deeper
and deeper into waiting fens
bogs, and marshes. Sepia water’s
rising earthy tang. Hear calls of
tree frogs piercing bullfrog basso.
Swamplove guides my feet.
Walking on this quiet path
of one, whispering, weaving
my story through morning
greengrows, first touch of Spring.
Give me eyes, give me feet.
Give me the empty places, so full
for me. I claim no insignias
no amulets, no name. Give me the
roiling clouds, bristlebrown thistles
rustling cattails, wingwhistles of
plunging bird wings. Dig the wet
willing earth. Plant Oldfield Pines
roots sinking into the soil, needles
glistening with morning dew.
Let the lifepipes sing clear
across all the longlost lands.
