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/Unsplash


Poetry
Laura Grace Weldon

Laura Grace Weldon

About the author

Laura Grace Weldon is the author of four books and was named 2019 Ohio Poet of the Year. Her background includes editing books, leading onviolence workshops, writing poetry with nursing home residents, facilitating support groups for abuse survivors, and teaching classes in memoir and poetry. Connect with her at lauragraceweldon.com.

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