To my Muck Boots

When you arrived in November, I sung your praises.

You kept my feet warm through December, January, February, and, even in March, when winter lingered.

When the rains came in April, you kept my feet dry as I slopped through puddles and mud.

But Muck Boots, I am so over you.

I long for the day when the ground is firm, the mud and puddles gone. Then I will wear Crocs, and maybe even, tennis shoes.