Muddy

I dream of getting good and muddy

sometimes. When I reach the end of a spreadsheet,

I wonder when was the last time

I let my bare toes squelch around in mud.

I know I did regularly

when I could use the excuse

of having young children, too squirmy

for any tidy activities. A little muddy

play always left them satisfied

and ready to nap afterwards.

I've gotten muddy with guests,

charmed by the sights of my county,

who wanted to feel that famous red clay for themselves.

I’m getting to that glorious age

where I don’t need to find excuses.

Peculiar old women don’t apologize

for a beloved clash of colors or

filling up all of the spaces they fancy.

There’s some fresh tomatoes in the house.

There’s good mozzarella in the fridge.

I have enough to make a sandwich

to take to the creek on my lunch break

so I can play a little in the mud.

Song Choice: Mud on the Tires by Brad Paisley

This poem was created for the prompt at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads: Just One Word - Muddy It's also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry 482.