A Small Tribute to Fresh Water

I have heels of peeling carnations that
drift over the liquid orange glass top
of the river, with the silver dancing frogs
that lap at my toes as I pass over
their nests of frozen osprey feathers.

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My legs yearn to stretch to the blood red
edges of the reeds, down into the dredges
of the black, black, black underwater,
long to pass through the very bedrock
to bathe in the rivers of Elysium.