Oaks Bottom Bog

emerald womb, wet, fecund, 

seizing sun’s fertile light 

grazing roots of thought, soft,

tendrils glazing duckweed floats

quickening flow of blood and dew 

to open our throats like the Pacific chorus frogs 

who burp songs where they sit 

and loosen our bent wings to flit and dip

like wrens and wood ducks come to sip

birthed whole and well in this wild 

where green sings

in radiant elvish tongue hallowed tune

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Thanks for writing!