The Marsh
You make yourself new again.
Along your side,
only a thin line marks the scar
where you lay open one whole summer.
Steam rises from your body
in this heat.
You move slowly
you sit up to your chin in yourself.
One morning you are a blue floor.
You are rising, you are learning
to walk again, your feet do not stumble
over the wide roots.
The birds come back,
they tear at you, opening their beaks
in hunger, you feed them.
They will stay.
Again the salt burns in your blood,
but your mud is soft
and you are walking towards the sea.
