Who hasn’t read a poem about water or rain? About the way the puddles shimmer as the clouds drift away. About the colors that arch through the sky, sunlight cast through a raindrop.
When a person looks into a puddle at their reflection, what do they see?
How can they expect to get a clear image of themselves in such muddy water? It makes no sense, but still I pause on my way home from the school to look into a puddle, from melted snow now, considering the season.
The water is dirty, like the snow it came from. It reflects the sky, but when I stand over it, all I can see is my shadow. I see mud and imperfection.
I kick the puddle and the water splatters over the road. Now I’ve wasted time. I could’ve been at home, sitting in front of the fire place. It’s cold and windy outside- what’s the matter with me?
I trudge on, glancing into another puddle at the edge of my driveway. Shadow and mud. What’s so special about that?
I don’t understand- I probably never will. But I’ll probably stop and look again anyway