Sunday, April 17, 2011

Day 12

Red mud
From mountain blood;
dye washed from fox's tails;
maple leaves and poppy flowers.
All collected in one big puddle
Becoming red clay
In  sunlight.
Frog seedlings
burrow into the red mud,
black tails wriggling, waving, frightened;
nothing to breathe but silt.
We fill buckets
with red mud and black tadpoles
haul them out to safety
all afternoon.
They were saved.
Not all;
some died, but
many lived.

1 comment:

  1. Liked the imagery. Tho the whole essence of the poem somehow slipped away from my mind like a tadpole ;)