|"Puddle", 1952, M.C. Esther|
via Magpie Tales
In jest, you pretend to knock
on my head, as if my spirit
could be housed in a brain
of logic that shoots sensible
electric pulses, stimulatingactions I perform.
"Is there anybody there?" you say
not really wanting to know,
satisfied with what I feign.
Afraid, you quickly turn away
tip toeing softly, leaving imprints
in wet soil of my truth,
outline of your weight remaining
within grimy, muddy granules
compressed in darkness.
I invite you to return, get wet
and dirty in me until that time
when you have courage to delve,
to splash childishly in my clear water
sparkling, cleansing, reflecting
light with optimum exposure
to the heavens, which to you
are now obscured.
Submitted to Magpie Tales and Carry on Tuesday.