The Swamp

I live in the swamp,
Neck deep,
I watch the ripples escape.
And they never come back.
This bog is my home,
And my skin doesn’t wrinkle,
But the mosquitos peck at my eyes,
And the birds nest in my hair.
And the moon does this thing to the water,
Blacker than oil, but shining white.
Bright and freezing.
 
I’ve seen you peeking in.
A heron’s neck, you have not.
My ripples run in all directions,
But you send none to me.
And my face doesn’t change,
But it does remain afloat.
And my body doesn’t tire,
And I don’t need the light.
So I’ll remain,
In this warm darkness,
Waiting for a wave.
 
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