Regard the frog. In days of watered heat
he first heard echoed peeps to his bold boom
and squeezed his eyes to search the lily bloom
till her webbed grace splashed past his thin throatbeat.
They rocked the pads in sun and swam through night
and she was all frog glories without fault.
His bubble mind knew better to exalt
than search for scum to dim his scum-dim sight.
The eggs would float soon; soon the polliwog.
But blood ran chill before that teeming day
and he sat blinkless while she purled away
to dive about a basser, greener frog.
In winter leave him now to sleep, to look,
to leap: and feel the ice around the hook.
Written in 1961; first published here in 2001.
Copyright (c) 2001 by Alan C. Elms.