Waking from it's long slumber,
Like a child standing for the first time.
Struggling to stand,
Against the wind,
The rain,
The gravity.
The marsh lies there,
Brown.
Like the metal underneath the paint on playgrounds.

It shakes it's stalks free from the mud,
As the wind bully's it into shaking this way,
And that.
Crashing the stalks into the ground,
Like a lion traps a mouse.
And plays with it.
Allowing it to rise a few feet,
And slamming it down again.

If the stalks are patient,
And blow with the wind,
They will be rewarded,
In the end.
When the wind gives way,
To the gentle calm,
Of summer.