Dave Bonta looks closely at a small, easily missed plant, the American golden saxifrage, which he also calls the "water carpet." The poem reads like a patient field note. It describes how the plant spreads in a low mat over wet, spongy ground, and how its flowers are so tiny and plain that you could walk past them. They have no petals and are mostly green, with just a few red dots where the anthers are and a brown edge around the damp patch where the plant grows.
The speaker's feeling is quiet affection rather than loud wonder. The word "so-called" suggests a gentle skepticism toward the common name, as if the plant deserves a closer look than a label gives it. The ending is the warmest and funniest moment. The whole little wetland becomes a "sweet pool for some lucky gnat," which shrinks the scale of the world to an insect's size. The mood is calm, curious, and slightly humorous, rewarding attention to small things.