mud
written by David Brath
mud
fist pounding rain
on the metal roof
on a cold May morning
before even the birds
begin their songs
reminds me
of the magic of fire
and its insane power
when I’m laying
in a soft bed
my head resting
on dreamy pillows
a cloud-like comforter
pulled up
to my bare shoulders
understanding if I
were outside
in the cold rain
with my naked shoulders
I would be sleeping
dead
the fist pounding rain
thumping victory
on my cold back
my eyes half open
in a cavity
of mud
next to the stump
of the Doug-fir
cut and sawed
four years earlier
and split into firewood
to keep souls warm
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