Swampstillness

The trees of the swamp
Their slim sticks like shepherds' staves
Or circus stilts abandoned in a fever

The still, vertical swimmers
With strokes as stiff and aimless
As the lazy air around them

Who, when the heron alights to rest
Recline into its weight
Like lovers with their sleeping brides

The sticky sunlight saps its mortal servants
Surrounding them like a queen
Envious of their simple existence

And the stillness -

The stillness.

The kind that is centuries settled
With no plans for the rest of Earth’s eternity

As if sleep is not a succumbing
But a state as knowing as wakefulness

As if the awakened ones could understand
That beauty and survival are the same

And that these sublime swamps sleep
In the palm of their fumbling hands