MUDMEN

They are not shaped like me or you,
But something old the whole world knew
As if the earth, with patient hand,
Tried once to mold what walks the land.

Their bodies, built of silt and clay,
Are never fixed, but drift and sway.
A shoulder sinks, a finger grows,
Like quiet tides that ebb and flow.

Their faces never stay the same,
No two alike, no steady frame.
Their eyes appear as gleaming stains,
Then fade like drops in summer rains.

They dress in gifts the wetlands give:
In shells and bones where memories live,
With woven reeds and driftwood bands
All stories held in earthen hands.

They do not age, but wear away,
Grown smooth with each passing day.
Until at last they fade from sight
And sink back into soil and night.

They smell of rain, of roots, of stone,
Of quiet places left alone.
And when they pass, the world grows still
As if it bends to ancient will.

Their skin is swirled in marshy dyes
Of mossy greens and shadowed grays,
With river-black and earthen brown
That shift like storms beneath a frown.

Through them run roots like hidden veins,
With ghost-pale shoots and fungal chains.
Some softly glow in darkest night,
Like buried stars that learned to light.

They do not walk as we would tread,
But shift like currents softly spread.
Their feet dissolve, reform, then glide
Like land that moves with hidden tide.

And if they sense a sudden threat,
They fall apart, dissolve, reset
A heap of mud, a shallow seam,
Then rise anew like waking dream.

They mean no harm, they simply be,
Old keepers of what none can see.
For truth, if ever truth was said:
The earth itself walks where they tread.