Poetry- The Puddle

The Puddle

It’d been a while

since I came out.

On my own.

The others

had come and gone, and I felt that itch

to use my body for a time

and hear the bristles of grass crackle like fire beneath my feet. 

So I went on my own again.

I was thinking about being acted upon,

            by the heat,

            glare,

and other representations of grace,

when I came upon a broken pipe.

I’ve never seen a spring, though I’ve often thought

it might look something like this— unannounced,

wedging itself into world

without an apology.  The stream of water

burbled out

and waddled its way over to a puddle.  The birds were having a grand time.

They couldn’t care less

about definitions of nature and society. 

I scared them off

with my approach.  But that sounds more active than it was.  More

that I arrived, and they happened to depart

in a similar proximity. 

The butterfly didn’t seem to mind me too much though.

I decided to take off my flip flops,

and roll up my pants, and wade through. 

If it was good enough for the birds, and babies,

and blades of grass,

then it was probably good enough for me too.

It was soft, the soil, and gave itself to my weight

with a good-natured ease that surprised me.  Not a single complaint.

It’s a good thing

to hear water on a hot day!  I climbed the fence barefoot

and tread through the wet grass. I turned

and saw a sheet of sky

reflected in the grass.  Nice, to see those two

holding hands again.  The frogs, those oracles of blessed dissonance,

where the two seams meet they will be loud there tonight,

and I like the idea

that one of them might find some respite

in the puddle of my footprint.