A Geologist Muses Upon Mud

You praise the mud you say

has been made “useful,” fashioned

into bricks to build dwellings

or baked to make pitchers

for water and wine, the mud

that leaves remnants

of real work done well

You distinguish that mud

from this mud--this mud you say

you’re stuck mucking around in,

unable to make meaning from

as you plan and work then

re-plan and re-work, never

doing enough

You must not know that

this mud

coheres the continent

on which you stand, and

collaborates with plants

to stop riverbanks

washing out to sea

You must not know of

small squiggly things that

muck in this mud cycling

oxygen and nutrients,

or have seen hippo and rhino

and elephant bathe in this mud

to keep the hot sun

from their skin

You must not remember

the real work of small children

who know that though mud pies are

not made to be eaten, they’re

essential to life

The One I Needed