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.