Oaks Bottom--A Poem

Pale blue flimsy jewels float atop liquid filled paths,
Depressions of paw and print sit still and fill with
A smoky hue whose shade is implied not in the sky,
Not by the clouds, not in the wings overhead or nearby.
Edges meander and pass impressions serrated by grass
As sedges are bent, scattered, askew from a nearby pool.

What in this tone looks out of place? In this meadow, a remade glade,
A faint haze reclines on wetlands reclaimed. A place restated, returned
From refuse, prior sheets of stray debris are sown with past deposits to
create Refuge. A rainbow’s reflection of slick would not be amiss if it
flowed on this New day. But is there no sheen, no glistening glaze, or
pretty poison to Tell of the ways it disguises relics of waste into spaces of
play.

A layer on layer, shadow of err, perhaps a simple token taken from that
Sampling well? A disc of desiccated dirt saddled with rusted points,
Holding fast some unknown resource from which to draw--what? There
Is mystery in that subtle color of soft sky, foreign trace of what was, it
Causes no concern to croaking voices of frogs, echoing a call
In each other’s craw. Pond of water: scalloped, scum, blue.