December Mud Poem by Phillip Erb

The pasture is home to a thousand
Mud puddles in the shape and size
Of horse hooves separated by
Strips of grassless swamp broken by
Islands of manure and molding hay

Inmates of the wetlands:
Two mares stand in place dismayed
By the sterile expanse of quicksand
Footsteps pulled back into the earth
Pop loud and wet like suction cups

The clouds cover the sun - that
mayhap otherwise dry sodden coats,
or foster brighter spirits; put back
the life into two pairs of marble eyes -
the wind doesn't move them.