Posted by: ktzefr | March 26, 2019

If A Frog Could Talk…


I remember when he was a handsome specimen,

before all the rains and snows and March winds, 

before the summer hot sun sizzled his metal body.

He’s rusted now, turned reddish-brown, head to toe,

the color of an old toad.  But his body is still smooth

without bump or wrinkle, and he has that look

of eternal surprise on his face, hands at his mouth

as if to control a gasp, with his eyes forever looking up

at an ever-changing sky. 

I wonder what this frog has seen…

the birds bathing in the birdbath,

the red fox curled up in the shade of the beech tree,

or the night creatures — the raccoon drinking

from the ceramic fountain or the cats that prowl

the neighborhood after dark. 

If only the frog could talk.


I wish he could tell me who pooped

on the porch last night.





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