by Miriam Priborkina
They were dragged through the mud
the leaves, that is.
Neither vibrant nor crisp in the Autumn air,
Just dull and wet,
Like the soles of my shoes.
They were soiled
So I picked them up and took them home.
Mama howled at me.
“They brought mud in!” she said,
Pointing at the leaves in my hand.
I looked down at my soles
Currently ridden of filth
All clean
As she held her head in her hands
A capitulation.
Soon my leaves wilted more.
They were no longer nice and soft.
The house was brown
With the mud they brought.
It was ok
I could always clean.
I still collect murky leaves
I do not think you would get it.
Yes, they ruin my home
Yes, they look bad
But are they not deserving of appreciation?
They went through so much.
What is a little mud in my home?
It was worse for them.
Now my soles remain murky
Stained
Tainted
Unwashable
Oh no!
A miscalculation
But that is ok
There’s always a new pair