One day, probably late spring,

I came back from my swamp,

nose running from the new flowers,

my sneakers caked with mud.

I was scolded but I didn't care,

for it was my swamp, rotting

there in the middle of a wood,

just under the overgrown precipice.



I jumped along the

obstacle course in my swamp.

I skipped from the old tire, rising

ominously from the mud, and

then to the damp wooden board

which wobbled beneath my feet.

Every now and then I slipped.



I sat, leaning against the ancient,

mossy tree which shaded me from the

baking sun. I watched the

procrastinating dragonfly as

it flew from a bush, to the

tire, to the board, and finally

to the lazy green muck.



My green muck.

My swamp, my life.

And every now and then I slip.