W. B. steps out the back to see his marsh.

He’s bought a one-armed shovel, sent for lilies

from his native Maine.  “There’s a pond

out there could turn into a garden,” he thinks,

then paces off a length and starts to dig.

He scoops and hauls for two whole days.

The third day he visits the cabins

on Polk Street, smells the fatback frying,

sees the glow of potbelly stoves in one-room shacks.

He finds a colored man in need of work,

pays him two dollars for each day.

For three days more they scoop and haul,

till W. B. says, “That’s good.”

The pond he made stays mud until

he opens the pipe placed under the dike.

River water gurgles in with rising tide.

W. B. knows where that tide comes from:

he’s sailed his boat down the Potomac

almost to the Chesapeake’s mouth.

He knows the sources of that rich mud

in which he’ll plant his flowers: he’s seen

the topsoil wash slowly off the land.

“One grower’s loss is another’s gain,”

he says, then starts to farm the marsh.