archaeology

One day, digging up the forest floor,
They will stumble upon something white.
Something hard to identify, even to tell apart
From the peat moss and mycelium, something
Brittle and crumbling, even delicate
To the exploring fingers.
It will stain whatever it touches,
So they will not forget
The strange encounter.
Today, though, it is raining.
The grass is wet, the spruces offer
A cruel shower and then some more;
Your boots mired to the tops, one slosh
In the sea of green, another, a glimpse
Of red dotted with white, and cranberries,
And then nothing.
The eye of the bog now closes with a snap.
Bog will now sleep.
They will be aliens one day, groping
For the purchase on the forest’s floor,
Of those who bled there like
Cranberries on the peat moss white,
Like ignēs fatuī in the murky air,  Image result for ignis fatui
What they find will stain them.

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