by Meredith Mason
Two inches of murky water
In the ditch behind the ball park
Where second sons and middle daughters Investigate the rusted dark
mouth of a tunnel where frogs blink in a scrap of leaf-rot water.
The kids don’t seem to mind the stink Or notice the slime or litter.
While the crowd cheers on a batter, A 1st-grader quiets beside
An oil-slicked trickle of water, Slowly, silently tries to slide
A hand beneath slippery quick Frog belly like this place matters, And the memory that will stick: This margin of muddy water.