Mud Season

The fifth season, we all know it, those

of us who wander the back roads of Maine

unpaved, or perhaps living on one, daily trips out,

and the thaw is happening now in the rising

temperatures of spring coming on, the softening

of ice packed on frozen ground and turning the road

to ooze and slime, our trailings marked in the ruts

of tires sinking in and spinning to get traction

or crawling along the ridges of ruts left by fellow travelers

fighting the hill to get out, our cars and ourselves unharmed,

the unwary ones sliding into the depth of a rut worn deep

by others’ tires gouging out the earth and mud

and obliterating the road’s once flat surface,

a daily trek to work, to town, just out, navigating

around these furrows formed, carved and twisted

troughs of mud, wreaking havoc on a chassis’ underside,

and our moods for the day, cursing each other and ourselves,

just looking for terra firma, anything solid to drive on,

a steady line out, fighting the wheel and slipping car,

“steady pressure, steady speed, don’t stop, don’t stop,”

focusing on the road ahead, such as it is, slick and a living

thing pulling us into a deep trough, pushing us toward the edge

and a looming ditch; this fifth season of mud

muddying our cars and our nerves and our attitudes,

the price of living where we do, the back roads of Maine

calling us out of winter and back onto the highways of spring.