No inlet or outlet in a bog
The acid water is a desert
Strange watery desert
The edges quake underfoot
Green sphagnum sponge sated sucks
At my shoes.
Tastes are tart in a bog:
Labrador tea with leathery leaves
Bog thyme, bog cranberries and
The Venus flytrap with red veins
Phallic and vaginal at the same time
A belle fleur sans merci
Delicate sundew arranged to entrap
In gem like globules that glitter.
Tamaracks are slow to grow in the bog.
When burned their wood is hot
Enough to boil maple syrup
And cool enough not to burn birch bark.