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My Swamp MAG
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.
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