Mud World

Yes,

for God’s sake, yes,

I admit it!

I am not

made of mud,

not made

for a life

in the mud.

Satisfied?

Apparently not

since you keep

rattling on about how

mud is not mud

either—

it is auroral light,

you say,

playing like

dolphin hearts

in the bow wave

of the first Word.

The stuff was

never intended

to become

Mud World

that traps 

our feet

in the grasping

wet sediment of

low expectations

and boundless

shame.

Wash now

in the oldest water

there is—

in the artesian well

of God’s first thought:

Let there be light—

and there was,

because you are.