Mud Puddles

How am I not to write of you?
Or this?
This mess?
I’m standing in your mud puddle again.
You’ve been stomping in it
My whole life.
You raised me here and
Splattered my white dress.
I never got out those stains.
I outgrew the frock
But I never could discard it.
I tore it up and used it in a quilt
With other outgrown things
And hung it inside on my wall
To remind myself that ruination
Can be remade into beauty.
I will take it down
When I come in from your storm.
If you come inside too
I will use it
Maybe to wrap you in
And certainly
To wipe your dirt
Off my feet.

HS 12.5.2016



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