The Mud Beneath My Feet

simple childhood memories and the impact they have on the now

the beds are dry and all of the mud has curled up
into delicate rolls that remind me of the
decorations in mom's fanciest of cookbooks
they seem almost too pretty to touch and far too
pretty to step upon
but i do it anyway to take myself back, to stroke my
own memory, and they tickle the underside of my feet
with each movement, as light as my steps may be
i am taken back to simpler times, a childhood
relieved with you
the two of us holding steady as we sunk deeper in the
soft mud of a cool creek bed, our balance in question
with each step further in
the mud fills any gaps we might have
holding us together, stitches us in that time
how could i ever forget
something so simple, something so pure