Under the surface
beyond the marsh’s black and gold
something is going on
Leaves like sailboats browned by the wind
move mysteriously to and fro
invisible creatures pulling strings
setting the course
lower down
so that what we see
is not the real story: even the ducks
tripping between logs
write propaganda
What causes the pain is uncertain,
why the ripples are magnified,
how deep the water is, and how warm
None of this can be measured
all can be misconstrued
and lies can be told quite safely
The sun lights the scene,
then shadows gather:
there is laughter in the distance
and a bonfire beyond the boardwalk
but a power beyond it all
that never changes
I close the hatch:
now my little world is dark,
and I cannot see the door
Outside, mud lies deep
on the path to heaven