Bog Lanterns
1.
You held sharp branches back for me
and I for you
as we paused, muck-streaked
and hesitant to step into the wetlands.
Sliding on moss-slick rocks,
sinking into cattails' spongy hillocks,
we waded in knee-deep
and there they were,
the beaver ponds, long abandoned,
shimmering—
lovely, terraced slopes
brimming, impassable.
We hiked from buck brush into pools
knotted with stems and long ropes of cupped leaves
spiked with yellow flowers,
carrion scented, sheathed in spathes.
The bog lanterns were rising.
Fly-kissed they rose, flashing,
pulling the deep night down around us.
2.
I still dream of you,
mud-rooted man,
who grasped the upswing of a sudden song
and followed the varied thrush
unseen, hovering—
she led us home
through silver firs
buoyed by the moon's maize light.
by Christianne
Balk
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