when the world is puddle-wonderful
e. e. cummings
I delight in puddles. Even a macadam pothole or a muddy wheel rut in a dirt road holds bewitching fascination. Vernal or tide pools fill me with the vibrancy of unfamiliar and strange lives teeming in their waters. No puddle is the same. They can be reflective, transparent, opaque or turbid. Each has its own time span of ephemeral existence. Many are subject to the vagaries of rainfall. Vernal pools are on an annual cycle, and tide pools emerge from the deep twice daily.
My Webster’s defines “puddle” as a shallow depression full of water, especially muddy or dirty water. It’s also “a little pool of any kind.” But a puddle is an elastic concept. It can be said to be a surface accumulation of water shallow enough to walk through, but not deep enough to float a boat. Limits on puddle size seem to be in the imagination of the beholder.
