Mender’s Mud

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Flickr, cc, Protopian Pickle Jar

By Bill Ramsey, April 17, 2020

0nce, on a dry and rocky footpath,
a dab of sacred saliva dampened dust.
Silently, the mender’s hands kneaded,
molded and applied the curious blend.
Mudded eyes opened. Vision restored.

These days, we walk mired down,
slogging mucky tracks, traversing
our first New England mud season,
distanced, sheltered, masked, waiting
for healing, solace and renewed balance.

April’s earth underneath our boots
is dew dampened, drizzle drenched,
thaw soaked and oh so mud mucked.
Bogged down in this deadly pandemic,
we yearn for a closure, less muddled.

Downpours flood our trusted trails.
Streams pool and runlets flow anew.
Last year’s leaves sponge the path,
lying soggy, waiting to applaud in
the encore sighting of early buds.

Dare we reach down, beyond distancing,
venturing with our once conveying hands
to uncover the pandemic’s progenitors,
entangled roots sown in seductive seedbeds,
upheld by neatly knotted, tightly lied excuses?

Once again to touch our trembling faces
and then massage our own enclosed eyes,
with gracious handfuls of mender’s mud
until our eyelids, so caressed and caked,
open riveted on insurgent glimpses –

Virus and hubris sequestered,
solace for our kindred losses,
Earth’s long-waited mending,
and this whole muddled puddle,
more balanced and rearranged.

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