Grace and Peace to you.
Everything is green, all right,
unlimited, alive and moist.
The mosses have intensified,
the bloated brook’s a winding slug
asleep beneath its sheets of scum,
the space between the trees is thick
with wood-sweat, scents and bugs,
the undergrowth bushed up so much
that you can’t see the marsh, or light.
Vines creep and cling, insatiable;
they’d gladly take the woods. The mud’s
a green brown sludge of living things.
A clump of sunlight lies fermenting
down between the cattail’s legs.
Air hangs like laundry, limp and damp.
What mercy empty wind would be,
an arctic breath, or something dry,
some bounds to this fecundity,
some distance, or a little death.