March into Mud

Everywhere I go, there is mud.
Whether wooded trail or garden path.
It lies strewn across sidewalks
And collects in every margin.
It clings to me and marks my passage.
Every footfall leaves an impression
A gouge in the earth or an unfortunate stain.
Each step forward saturates my fabric
and grinds grey-brown into my seams.
I carry the places I’ve been, with me, in my skin.
Collecting substance with each excursion.
With time, and more miles behind me
I’ll find myself too heavy to move.
My legs bound by sucking clay
And my clothes too stiff to bend.
But maybe the muddiest have lived the most,
and have been the most real.
I get muddy, therefore I am.

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