There is a River under the Lake
Edward Wilson

Years ago
the dam held
up a hand like
a traffic cop
and would not
be disobeyed.

For 100 miles
upstream, seeps
from sloughs,
runnels, creeks,
1000 springs
inventing a way—
all came.

Every fallen
leaf had the
map, the veins
joining and

All that braided
water slack now
except for the
trickle staining
the spillway—

purposeless, flat,

an Etch-a-
Sketch for the
catspaw breeze.

At night, another
vain moon-mirror.
The wheeling
remote to care.

Shores as wide
as the drive
from home
to the office
and back.
as a day’s worth
of troubles.


far out under
your wide hat

cast a line.

Catch the magic

the question.


it the way.

Return to Spring 2015 Table of Contents