This is for you, for that time when
the mud seemed to
keep spreading all over you
the more you tried to get it off
(a hand unwittingly bestowing smudges
on your face, your hair, too, now enmired)

When all those hapless efforts to get clean
evidently just made you worse
(the weary resolutions you adopted, to get out
just sank you deeper)

And the rough voice said,
There is guilt, obviously —
there must be payment,
your redemption will, no doubt,
take a long time
(if, indeed, beneath the mud,
there’s anything left to redeem)

You cried, save, or I perish.
You washed yourself in tears,
you huddled, waited

And that, as always,
is when the lifting waters come,
bearing you up, separating
each strand of hair, floating
the dirt away, wrapping you
in weightless warmth

And tender hands
cradle you, bring you home,
saying, this is my precious child!
and everyone rejoices.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 30, 2016