River Mud

I don't really feel like writing today.

I'd rather be naked on the ground,

head-to-toe exposed,

so I could really think

and hear the pines rustle.

I would bury my sadness in a funeral mound

of dirt and river mud.

I would press grasses into the soft pile

so it looks like a bump in the earth.

Then, I would rise

and walk away.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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