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.
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