The Waltz

He waltzes across placid wakes in morning,
through tall stalks of switch cane,
drenched in the scents of lingering decay.


The swamp is such a glorious anonymity,
autumns migration creates a yearly martyrdom,
silently claiming one, for another-s dream.


But the beauty is; hearing him blissfully chatter,
propelling his body off the muddy bottom to waltz.
revealing in the monotony of torn plumes.


Just drifting atop of placid familiar waters,
strewn with water lilies in bloom,
his memories are;

dark shadows man has forgotten.

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