The sweet, small, clumsy feet of April came into
the ragged meadow of my soul.
—e. e. cummings

•••

I set my rain-booted ones in April’s clumsy feet,
clomping through puddles like someone

much younger and closer to the ground,
not minding the dampening of my pants,

enjoying the squish and splash penetrating
my soul’s ragged meadow—

more parched than I had realized, far too
grown up for its own good,

reawakened by a playful soaking on
a rare rainy day in spring.

Not until later did I chuckle at what
passers-by might think of the coatless,

hatless, white-haired lady in her purple
rain boots careening through puddles

on an otherwise nondescript city sidewalk,
giggling with undisguised delight.