In the month of the mud
a poem
In the month of the mud,
Snow, the crafty magician, hurries off to better places,
metamorphosizes — liquifies, sublimates off the tops of the mountains
onto roads, nooks, crannies,
compulsively takes on any and all races.
As if time were of the essence,
he urges streams to pick up a neck-breaking pace, and when they can’t,
the trickster disappears,
into the thin air.
As if by his incantation — “Open Earth!”
Earth opens, relaxes
The forlorn soil, now naked, hardened,
succumbs to thirst-quenching runoffs, and the golden sunshine,
and slowly wakes to yet again long for giving birth
to trees, grasses and flowers, and all
that lives within.
Rosie Pi and I are sinking.
Famished, the soil will take in anything, everything.
Desperate, clever and resourceful —
She flashes her magnetism, teases, grounds our paws and feet,
beckons to give in, to go with it.
She’ll do all the work,
if she could just make us,
just for a moment,
stand still
to take root.
The bouncing life within breaks her enchanting shackles,
and springs us free.
We run.
The mud splashes everywhere,
on us,
on the ground,
in the air.
Children of the soil,
one day, we’ll succumb to her magnetic lullaby,
but not today.
Today, we run high on life,
my sweet life-loving puppy, Rosie Pi,
and I.
