the wetland

 

I always find the urge to put in a break,

sometimes mid-sentence, 

but definitely after each period. 

Sometimes I find the urge to make the space wide,

a void opened up between thoughts, 

make sure there is time to consume what's been said. 

Sometimes there are no spaces at all, no line breaks other than that demanded by the end of a page, a screen, simply because I cannot write across the globe in perpetuity. 

  

Why can't I write my science article, my dissertation with forced pauses and style?

Why can't I tell you about the mosses and wetlands,

where the frogs used to live - before - a fungus, Batachochytrium dendrobatidis, brought by us came and dissolved their skin? 

It's a different kind of story-telling, I know, but sometimes it seems more effective. 

Translating the facts and data between poetry and professionally formatted article. 

 

They say that science must remain emotionless, disciplined. 

No, there are facts, not feelings. 

I'm sorry, I've never met a scientist that wasn't deeply in-love with what they study.

And, yes, that maybe does cloud how they approach, how they formulate, what they remember about the system they have immersed themselves in. 

 

I remember as a kid, the frogs where everywhere, 

but then again, so were there wetlands.

There was snow for half of the year, escaping the heat was easy.

 

But now it's oppressive, blanketing, thick, into all the narrow canyons, no stream to offer reprieve.  

 

The wetland has left us behind, we gave it names like swamp and bog,

told stories about the good men drowning,

filled with evil spirits, nymphs, impeding our progress. 

 

Perhaps I never understood man that well,

I felt at home with the frogs, my feet squishing in wet soil. 

 

I also had names thrown at me - spawn of Satan, troll, queer - it's all the same really.

 

Wetlands though, they hold water, don't they know that we need water?

Water is the foundation that makes all our earthly processes possible.