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Puddle
May 22, 2012
It swells with the rain,
My little puddle.
Each drop jumping,
The growing puddle’s heart beat.
It shifts and morphs,
Till it is a little puddle no more.
Mud mixes in,
Creating patterns, faces, bodies.
I watch my puddle,
As it ages and changes.
Until I too become a puddle,
To mix wit the rest.
This composite of puddles,
Will not become a river.
But will wither and dry,
In the sun.
To join the sky once more,
And await the next rain.
© Michelle B., Blairsville, GA
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