daily mud

I’m most prone to fall into the mire of meaning when I’m down
It’s then I resort to stars as if they might pin awards
upon my chest: rewards for imminent understanding 

as if I might win the Medal-of-the-Unknown’s-Honor for piety
instead of for keeping my head in the machine of moment
taking it in, knowing the bliss of laugh,
tending the scrape on a daughter’s hand or heart wound
feeding a mouth, shoeing a foot, taking little, chewing cud

as if there were some truth greater and more sublime,
more holy, more worthy of wonder than that found here
in our daily mud


by Jim Culleny


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