Mud people struggle in winter.
They quickly freeze, then crumble
when the lowered sun discovers them.
Golems hide in the synagogues,
sweeping the floors and dusting
appliances to earn their keep.
But the others must find sponsors
to shelter them until spring breaks
with its hustle of tiny flowers.
I've allowed two mud families
to occupy the basement. You fear
they'll make a mess, or starve and leave
sloppy dirt-death for you to vacuum.
But properly kept, they're immortal.
They require no meals but absorb
gnats and flies. Their finely powdered
scat goes into plastic trash bags
delivered weekly to the landfill.
You worry that they'll whisper all night
and keep us awake. But lacking mouths,
they communicate only with signs.
Yes, they're lumpy and misshapen,
but when spring arrives, they'll roll
in the dirt in the garden to sculpt
themselves back into graceful forms.
Then you'll be glad we kept them,
beloved of the elements.
