A bog is what they called it

A bog is what they called it
thick and mossy and haggard
the bowing branches of a mighty willow
dripping with a warm congealed sap…

It reeks, you know, the sticky tree
of old age, stress, and decay
moss pinches deep between the bark
its shriveled loins moaning in weary bellows
when the wind comes in from the north…

When you breathe, you taste stale algae
the hollowed husks of wasp nests
the crickets have even stopped singing
and the spiders hardly ever feast
the ferns and bushes seem almost green
though more often pale and unenthused…

A bog is what they called it
unsightly and wet and grey
with roots that once writhed
through grainy top soil
Now too drunk on stagnant water
to even muster real tears.

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