Poem – Mud Intimate (By Tricia Knoll))

Mud Intimate

I plunge my fingers in mud

and sculpt a twig spine, line of dirt

deep massage for all the hurt

sluiced through river banks and muck.

I tickle the cherry tree root

so its limbs can feel

a hand’s warmth, a glow

that stimulates stone fruit.

In that line I poke a stone,

rounded rock of muddied flint

just where a head must hint

above his spine of rooted bone.

Tuck in pine cone feet

pebble buttons on a blossom suit

acorns for his ankle boots,

a wig of twisted wheat.

When we lie, him and I

thigh to muddy thigh,

I wish it were so simple,

you and I, lying by.