Saturday, March 22, 2025

Windy Alder Swamp

Windy Alder Swamp
© Surazeus
2025 03 22

When I find at last the wild alder swamp 
where, many years ago before my birth 
Jack Frost, the mad-eyed seer of Vermont, 
found winter garden of red-berried snow, 
I see rancid paradise he described 
that ever floats between Heaven and Earth. 

His gaunt luxuriating beast of fate 
still lurks in shadows of this alder swamp 
where trees begin to bud in spring-flared light 
that strips my soul of anguished self-concern 
so I stand denuded and vulnerable 
to close inspection of late-winter sun. 

Intense anxiety of wordless fear 
swells thick inside my heart with thwarted hope 
for something beautiful beyond this pain 
that surges ocean tides of bitter faith 
in dark depression of black moody sky, 
till I express despair with harpy cry. 

Stuck in blackening phase of alchemy 
that sears my heart with tangled energy, 
I breathe deep foul scent of the alder swamp, 
suppressed by frigid frost of winter gloom, 
then harmonize expressive melody 
in hopeful tones of weird aggressive hymn. 

With sudden whir of sober-feathered birds, 
that swoop through matrix of time-twisted limbs, 
I feel depressive passion bloom awake 
with flowers bursting from leaf-matted soil 
in words far sadder than the mist-veiled moon 
that glows indifferently with pretty light. 

Still on the forlorn road of vanished hope 
in windy alder swamp of hungry birds, 
I sense storm clouds fly tattered over hills 
reflected in cracked quartz stone in my hand 
that refracts depression with moon-white gleam 
so I find words to express how I feel. 

Rain-soaked boughs of alders overhead 
shake water of lost Heaven on my face, 
so I crouch by sky-silver pond of truth, 
and almost caress rippling waves with hands 
that feel vibration of this ancient Earth 
pulse in tune with beating heart in my breast. 

So I decide to choose less traveled road 
from winter garden in the alder swamp 
that bends through undergrowth of memories 
to free my heart from forest of regret 
so I can measure difference of my doubt 
through choices I make that create my fate. 


1 comment:

  1. Orpheus finds Robert Frost in the winter garden of the alder swamp where they chit-chat about anxiety that drives the human desire to create beautiful art in a seemingly-hostile world.

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