Waterlogged Earth
April 15 2026
The snow melts unevenly
from sunlit to shaded
and day to day.
It dwindles layer by layer,
like an archeological dig
revealing the kept secrets
of a stygian winter
beneath its grimy crust.
I think of confession
introspection
and exposé;
the public self,
the secrets within.
I step around the puddles on the long gravel drive
the waterlogged earth
has yet to soak up.
They shrink slowly
as new ones form
and the old are replenished
from a seemingly bottomless well.
They look shallow
but who can really tell
beneath the calm façades that mirror the sky;
cotton-puff clouds
on a canvas of azure blue.
The dogs happily drink from them,
flash-frozen water
preserved all winter
and freshly thawed.
While I tight-rope between
and would never think
to let it pass my lips;
who knows what dirty secrets it contains.
I have no idea whether or not an attentive reader would twig to the central metaphor of this poem. So the 2nd stanza effectively says it. Which contravenes the cardinal rule of good poetry: show, don’t tell. The problem I keep repeating is not trusting the reader enough: too much hand-holding, you might say. Have I done it again here? Without that stanza, is the poem too subtle or in fact not subtle enough?
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