Here is the endless
Wet thick
Cosmos, the center
Of everything - …
…I feel
Not wet so much as painted and glittered
With the fat grassy
Mires, the rich
And succulent marrows
Of earth – a poor
Dry stick given
One more chance by the whims
Of swamp water- a bough
That still, after all these years,
Could take root,
Sprout, branch out, bud-
Make of its life a breathing
Palace of leaves.
I imagine myself a dry stick picked up, somewhat rotting from the swamp floor, and Life uses me to stir the soup of existence. I am covered in creative goo, and not the entirety of the simmering creativity, but a conductor that makes eddies that shake and bake the new worlds into being. I am one star in a galaxy of billions, in a universe of billion of galaxies. My weight and gravity and fire are immense, and add to the swirl and movement of galaxies, but are nothing, nothing compared to the universe. However, in my little solar system, I can perhaps give light to the worlds that rotate around me, breathing palaces of multispecies encounters.
Walking through the Mangroves is similar. You take a step and sink to your waist while grabbing for any available branch. Out of the muck the mangrove trees hold the sand and soil so it reclaims land from the ocean.
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