Your hat was wide an awful thing

Your hat was wide, an awful thing,

in photos from that long-ago spring.

But those clogs, Carol, by the door,

they're what I see, and nothing more.

Caked mud, dried hard, a permanent stain,

from working plots, through sun and rain.

Left there, for me to trip upon,

a stubborn mark, from dusk till dawn.

They never fit me, weren't my size.

But still they sit, before my eyes.

Your muddy print, a steady claim,

whispering your difficult name.