March 29, 2009
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The squish of mud takes me away when
it was fun to spread wings in muck,
leaving behind dirty angel fossils.
Tip toes of water splashing on hair
and skin brought no menace. There
was no need for ducking and running;
instead a shake,a giggle, and little
bodies hopping and gyrating in the
downpour. When exactly did I stop
seeing red and orange streams of
ice pop tears racing down tiny
fingers? Stopped seeing the world
flipped upside down from my hanging
perch on a tree branch, sticky sap
clinging to my hands and body after?
My heart urges me to give in and
thrust yearning fingers into the mud,
churning from the assault of wet
sky bullets. Instead, in the gloom
of lost childhood, I clutch my
umbrella tighter and walk on.

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