Mire and Memory

She saw the mud,

a dark, wet space,

and fear took hold

upon her face.

"Quicksand!" she cried,

her eyes so wide,

from some old film,

deep down inside.

I saw the terror,

understood the dream,

of sinking slow,

a silent scream.

But my own boots

sank in the bog,

just heavy steps,

like a slow dog.

The squelching sound,

a simple pull,

not hungry earth,

just rich and full

of water, rain,

and leaf-mold deep.

No desperate fight,

no secrets to keep.

Just cold and wet,

a quiet give.

The ground won't take

the life I live.