Stuck

The frantic tug of muddy earth,
Shoes tied with weighted, softened ground.
A moment more the child resists
But then resigned she lay back down
On muddy earth and tufts of grass,
Slick and creased by lilting steps.
“Perhaps,” she yawns, “I’ll rest awhile”
And sleeps the eve in earthen depths.

The title word for this poem holds a special place in my heart; it is one of the two words my daughter used in her first ever sentence. Given her age and vocabulary, it was an impressive use of the English language in order to communicate (quite loudly) to my wife and me that she was constipated.

This fond memory of my early days as a parent doesn’t actually have anything to do with the poem that precedes it. The poem is about mud.

I thought that was obvious.

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