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?