ode to muskeg

i remember her from a dream--
where fireweed multiplied, night seldom came,
and when it did, it held a silence as unwavering
as an oceanic horizon. in the dream
she whispered. not words--she whispered
something else, something
beneath the darkness of a boulder field
lips pointed towards the earth, the deep
inner part of the earth, hushing
sounds, a faint breath.

awake, she growls.

she sets
fire to the plains, drips
rainbow explosions—psychedelic
polychromatism—texas tea some say,
while letting the rain splash her
face, never washing it away.
rumbling to wake, i wonder
if she will slip back into
consciousness today, rotate once more,
grace us with movement.
and she does. an oil spill
in motion but in motion
when told. through the great
land she wanders, lusting
for mountains, following rivers,
passing under the canopy
of swaying birch trees.

and if she had hair, I bet it would black—long
and black and unwieldy. her hair
would dance with every gust,
swing to every step. she has
heart, I can tell, waves of revolt,
refusal in her brakes,
mud on her lips.

in my dream, the mud
was chocolate, frosting splattering
a counter of sugar
water hard candy porcelain
windows house of candy house of cards
floating in clouds.

when i wake, she is a car that won’t start--
full of grease, no windshield wipers,
a busted emergency brake, fusebox
on fire, but then again,
I’m usually dreaming.

dls