Mud Season
It is that recurrent chapter in our lives
when assets liquidate. The water table
rises out of the ground like a vampire.
Dirt roads are mud baths for vehicles.
We scrape boots off in the doorway,
not to be barred by our Better Halves.
Poor mud-stained Girl Scouts peddle
cookies after school. Compassionate,
we order more than we are apt to eat.
Pastor rates us little less than angels.
He knows better, but earns his bread
helping us forget our name is Mud.
The Town posts weight-limits on all
back roads. Reserve no moving van:
this month you neither come nor go.
Suspended animation. If crews dug
at the cemetery, graves would fill up
with water. The dead too must wait.
Russell Rowland writes, maintains hiking trails, and babysits a toddler granddaughter in New Hampshire's Lakes Region.