He wants to fill in the pasture’s low spots.
I say no, no, no
these are magic spaces.
When winter comes they ice overnight
to crunch like candy under toddler boots.
Each spring, puddles leap into being,
just deep enough to wriggle with tadpoles.
Drying into mud, they entice butterflies
to drink salts in a crowded aerial whiffle.
Why even anything out?
These depressions of ours
hold so much.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Photo by Annie Spratt
Embrace Imperfection
How would it feel to release the need for perfection in favor of living? In this self-guided series, explore daily grateful living practices that will help you appreciate the imperfections in life that offer surprising meaning.
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