its a child's canvas
instead of boring paint bristles
feet are the utensils
the mushy feeling of play-doe
gushes between each toe

the wet slippery mud
carries oneself away
soon the hands cant help but join in
scooping mud by the handfuls
and unleashing imagination

somewhere over the sidewalk crack
a voice calls out in frustration
the mud is dry and crackling now
like chapped lips

a voice calling to go inside  
take a bath
but somewhere outside
in the mud castle
a little bud is sprouting