Mud Poem
September 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
Muddy-shoed mud poem
walks across the page
going as poems go
from line to line
and down,
and the more it rains
the more the ground agrees
to take up with whoever
comes along
and replant itself
on floor, carpet,
sofa, bed, in teacup,
on toast, until we are all
muddied, even rain
before it lands, even cloud—
dark with who knows what.
But fear not mud, but make
with it what you can
in sculpture, on canvas—
finger painted on a face
you kiss,
and in a poem.
Leave a Reply