Robert Louis Henry lives and studies in Tennessee. He writes poems, prose, and ditties. He’s editor and handyman at Leaf Garden Press (if you haven’t read that publication yet, correct that situation quick because you’re missing out). Robert doesn’t care enough to update to digital television. He maintains a blog about writing, publishing, and other stuff. This poem will take you out in the backyard on a summer day after a rainy night. It’s been a little while since you went worm hunting, hasn’t it?
King–Thick
By Robert Louis Henry
A puddle of mud is
fun when you’re little,
when the worms still
seemed like toys.
And it is not that mud
stops being mud or that
worms become too slimy.
Maybe it was some
chapter on germs in
biology class? Or
maybe the other kids
made a spectacle of you?
The tomboy and I still bury
worms in the rock garden after
every storm, leaving rows of
stones Sharpie’d to mark
their deaths, having never
known them in life.
This is a nice thought of yester year for me. Mud puddles were the best! Worms…you can have them.
Ah, childhood. Then we have to grow up!
So many childhood dreams buried before coming to fruition, because someone made fun. I still love worms, and have taught many grandchildren to splash in puddles. Thank you for bringing it back.