Makin’ Mud Pies – Live

Like soupy handfuls of river mud

Slung against a wall

My words splatter and spread

And slide to the floor

Fragrant, dark, and heavy loam

I feel the coarse silkiness between my fingers

There is something in the mix

But it refuses to hold a shape

Rather, my words form the banks

And contain the currents flowing through me

Fertile, deep, cool, and rich with promise

Yet they dissipate and have no force if removed from the flow

So for now, toes dug deeply into the ooze

I will sit and listen to the water

And the frogs and the buzz of my River

Playing in the mud and making mudpies

Some times it’s just like that

Plato's Groove