Poetry | August 05, 2019

Swale

In my winter by the sea, I fashioned

a new habit:

 

each day walking to Crowley Creek through mud

and leafless alder, their branches

 

cupped by the plush green of mosses and rolling

beds of sword fern, whose serrated

 

edges thrust extravagantly into cold and humid air.

The creek fed the estuary,

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