For months, nothing but drops
Of falling rain.
It rotted the estival buds
to blacked nubs.
Each lump of slime tumbled
Into the pond along the hedge.
Each fingerbranch is now is humbled
and bare, like a bride
whose fumbled ring
washed into the gutter.
The accumulated puddle sits on sludge,
a slurry of dirt collected by the deluge
settling into a fudgy cream under the water.
Any lumbering thing
is sucked down to the level
Of the pebbles below.
Bubbles rise from the lungs of the mud duffer
Sleeping under the chocolate foam.
He laughs at the bumbling antics
Of mundane waders
Whose careless feet wander under
And then refuse to budge from their muddy sockets.
The invaders jump and wheel when he bumps their ankles
And tickles their toes.
They numbingly squelch back to boards,
With clods slumping to the solid lumber underfoot.
Galoshes, gaiters, and umbrella
are dumped on the mat,
while muddy pillars stumble onward.
A proud march to Pomp & Circumstance:
A trailing promenade to the tub.
Now, a struggle is involved for the mud.
Its clear ichor is pumped from the faucet.
The lifeblood competes with the glop-
A daring kung fu between ivory soap
And sloppy soil.
Puddlesuds wink and drain down the grate,
Taking no umbrage at their comeuppance.
They follow the plumber’s road, chuckling at every turn in the pipe
Until they are dumped back in a ditch
And glide under a culvert,
To trickle back to the duffer’s hole
And wait for the next visit from
The children who escape and run
From their dry, glum minders.
Puddlesuds come home.