Late summer. And the pond is mud.
Rivulets of mud, fleshy mud, a curviform alphabet of mud.
The dragonflies glitter like needles,
the wasps’ angry drone has its logic,
and the frogs (leaping frantic, eyes bulging like gems)
If they could blame us would blame us. . . .
All’s mud; nor are we out of it.
The long months of your dying
I wandered the pond’s weedy edge,
no words,
nothing to say,
no spell to cast.
The pond shrank slowly to mud,
the heat-haze smelled of rot. . . .
Pockets of shallow water teemed with life
even as it disappeared.
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