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.
by Erik Anderson
nonfiction
... Many, if not most, writing students have to produce a version of The Dead Grandmother Essay. It’s almost a rite of passage ...
by Richard Stevenson
poetry
... No way in or out but by float plane / or private boat when the river / is high ...