Cranberry Bog [January]

Why only ever in a morning haze, when the pure white water into the cold earth sings, does the sky shine back in her milky dew? Where the cranberries sink, and I can taste your fruit. My turn to nature is turned right back. I wanted clean air, all I got was a laugh. Gravel and sand and peat and clay. I hear the word and feel the weight. Mysterious and changing, I grow ever impatient. Right in the rain my sensational death replays.