Swamp Graveyard
It’s alive here
and yet it seems so dead,
a graveyard of bald cypress,
bladderwort, sun-dew.
Fallen branches
are adorned with turtle sculptures,
lily pads, frog monuments,
and there, on the surface
of a brown, watery, mausoleum,
two gator eyes freeze solemn.
The air is thick and low
like a shroud,
once floating islands root-bound.
If it weren’t for the slithering cottonmouth,
there’d be no movement here at all.
Ironic that.
Signs of life
come down to the deadliest.
Other Works
Short Supply
by Elizabeth Fergason
... Whenever you are escaping, you must blast your way free. When you’re ready to claim yourself, cannonball out. ...
2 Poems
by John Sibley Williams
... The world orbits the worlds we invent / each day anew. To give us somewhere ...