Mud in Black and White


“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.” E.E. Cummings

Mud is two very different elements coming together. Earth and water. Rained on dirt. Water soaked soil.

No longer liquid, but not quite solid. Until baked by the sun into sinewy continents.


Then it can become bricks.

Molded and poured, shaped and baked, turbid then opaque. Mud can make,

a house. An adobe abode.

Mud can be worked.
But mud can be tricky and maleable.
Mud lays in wait for something or someone to change it.

When you least expect it,

the rain can reign down and carve out crevices,
wash away walls,
and muddy your whole bloody life.

Just when you thought it was solid.

But you are not made of mud, although you melt in a puddle for a mired while.
Then your hero pulls you to your feet and tells you to breathe, but it’s hard.
Lots of doubt and mud-slinging. Can you feel it stick?

So you walk the hard path together because it circles back to home.


And you make better bricks from the fallen mass. Repurposed, relived, repaired.

Memories awash and days float by
as you play in the mud with abandon.

Mucky joy over all the possibilities . . .

the alchemy of life can bring.

originally posted at

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