Friday, January 11, 2019

The Marsh by W. D. Snodgrass

The Marsh
Swampstrife and spatterdock
     lull in the heavy waters;
some thirty little frogs
     spring with each step you walk;
a fish’s belly glitters
     tangled by rotting logs.
Over near the grey rocks
     muskrats dip and circle
Out of his rim of ooze
     a silt-black pond snail walks
inverted on the surface
     toward what food he may choose.
You look up; while you walk
     the sun bobs and is snarled
in the enclosing weir
     of trees, in their dead stalks.
Stick in the mud, old heart,
     what are you doing here?

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