Dangerous Beauty

A smidge of sun after the rain.
Enough water finally that it runs
where once it sat stagnant.
The birds have begun to flutter again.
Leaves drip, big heavy drops.

Nothing grows straight here.
The light is stunted and the trees lean
and curl in search of sun,
twisting and weak.
Not a one of them tall and thick and strong,

the natural order of things thwarted
by a lack of light and soft ground,
a water table too close to the surface,
nothing steady. Nothing firm, a murky journey
full of dangerous beauty.

About this poem

My grandfather’s farm had a section that ran into the blackwater swamp in Eastern Virginia. I love that place. So the poem is about that.

Depression, which I fight daily, is something of a swamp. And as with any mental/emotional struggle, there is a beautiful danger in it. So the poem is about that

And it is raining today. I am sure that colors the verse as well.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom

PS: for those of you who worry about me when my poetry gets dark, I am fine. (and I appreciate your care.)