elizabethlevett

I’m standing in the schoolyard at the end of the day

doing what grown ups do

talking with other grown ups about this and that.

I watch without really watching

as some kids are playing around with a muddy puddle.

A seven-year-old girl squats down

and picks up a stick.

She slowly draws it through the cold and muddy water

pooled up from an afternoon shower.

And I witness the birth

of a tributary

and feel for just a minute

the heady wonder

as a little mud gets moved a little bit

and the water begins to stream off

a little bit

in another direction.

Thank you, small child, for knowing

that a mud puddle is the most magical place to play.

Thank you, grown ups, for not interfering,

for believing it is a fine thing

for little kids to have mud puddles to play in

with no directions, no instructions, no schedule, no expectation of a final product.

Thank you, my own parents, for making sure

that playing in a mud puddle would be a memory I carry

and can suddenly return to with such pleasure.

Thank you, rain water, for always finding the lowest point

and elevating it to the loftiest peaks of sublime discovery.