Berenda Slough

 Earth and water without form, 
change, or pause: as if the third 
day had not come, this calm norm 
of chaos denies the Word.
 

One sees only a surface 
pocked with rushes, the starved clumps 
pressed between water and space -- 
rootless, perennial stumps 

fixed in position, entombed 
in nothing; it is too late 
to bring forth branches, to bloom 
or die, only the long wait 

lies ahead, a parody 
of perfection.
 Who denies 
this is creation, this sea 
constant before the stunned eye's 

insatiable gaze, shall find 
nothing he can comprehend.
 
Here the mind beholds the mind 
as it shall be in the end.

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