boondall wetlands
poem 9
how do you know?
that the mud doesn’t feel the pain
of your weight upon its resting place
how do you know?
like the snake that rushes before your feet
and you the only audience
a gift only for your eyes
from the old people
maybe?
how do you know?
the tree that moves in the breeze
its branches caressing your head
maybe a touch of recognition?
maybe?
how do we know that this could be
our final resting place?
or sacred to someone else
is it voices or wind that pushes
the afternoon tide?
does your shadow talk to the land
or is it just a shroud of light?
are we asking the right questions?
and can they only be answered here on the
wetlands?
are the answers here for our blindness
or was blindness the only answer
our ears were content with?