How tempting is a mud puddle
lying still and silky,
reflecting sky and White Pine boughs?
There it is, secreted behind the climbing cube.
Calling with a slight ripple
caused by the fall wind.
That same cool fall wind that in the perverseness
of mothers deems muddy water out of season.
Out of bounds,
and "you may not get your clothing wet and no face paint either."
cauldron of mysteries
holder of globby muddy snowless snowballs.
Why, why not?
Temptations of childhood are a myriad lot,
but none so strong, and fraught with discovery
as illegal muddy puddles.