The soil is muddy. I step in mire. I trail mud for half a block. I have many objections. Told to hold my tongue. I return to said soil daily. I step in mire. I trail mud for half a block. I have many objections. Told to hold my tongue. I enter a garden. I prune flowers. Amazed by petals. To remove one too many ruins the flower. One too many petals were removed. I was collecting petals, no one understood. I wanted to put them back.
Some rollercoaster. A long ride. Many curves.
I was trailing dried mud. I was washing my soles. I thought to being right. The mind—couldn’t forget it, plus, life is on repeat.
Deep through darkness. The sunlight is marvelous. Those petals dried. A breeze came in, they drift.
Life has a feel to it. At its core, the blade of its grass, it’s neither yes nor no. It just sits—wandering itself—nudging us to motion.
I bathed before baptism. I showered after baptism. The soil is muddy. I step in mire. I trail mud while reading scripture.
