Poor Minnow

In spring a lake,
in summer, a swamp.
Your placid façade erupting
with lily pads and weeds,

On your basin
hidden piles of lumber –
the fetid reminder of
a mill long gone.

They say you can’t be cleaned-
too late for you.
I say, we flow into Ramsay,
can dredge the bottom.
Too costly, they reply.

So, we watch lily pads,
and green algae
multiply and swell to spread
across your surface,
cloaking and masking life.
Building silt rises
to further choke you.

Someday, soon,
we won’t see a lake at all.