Bog

Bog

No inlet or outlet in a bog

The acid water is a desert

Strange watery desert

Hostile still.

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.

                                                --Barbara Spring