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Say it, you have gazed
only at the grasses on the shore.
Say more, you are afraid of the deep.
The pond is full now of didymo
and you have dragged for days
to the eerie end of the marsh
where nightmare wades
and shadows leap to rock you.
Before your good chance
is gone, look down. This gift
of the garden is not given for long.
Let the long fronds slow you.
Count the hour you learned love
is not still or clear. Use your eyes
no less than grasshopper
or hawk, to find turtle as she flies
through canyons of slime.
You need not paddle or flail.
This is the heart of the marsh
in the midst of your life.
If the small whine and the greater
buzz should
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