the puddle

the puddle 

Born—an agate of guilt and rain,
a reckless, tiny lake;
a muddled blue-grey bloom
on a dispirited gothic noon.

Alas, flesh and bones
ogled at the crooked stone,
kindling at its trembling trope.
Pleading mercy, the pothole cried,
“O Zeus, mighty and wise,
havoc here have I reprised!
Spare mine soul, raise me to heaven,
I shall be obliged,
and when I die, have my birth-hole sanctified."

Zeus—ruthless, wicked, vile—
cursed the waterhole, exile:
“Thou shall burgeon down on earth,
cradle fishes, engraved in dirt,
compère spring florets,
to concoct where Ophelia shall rot.”