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.