When I fail to be awed
by this life, box my ears.
Pull me by lobe
down to the low creek,
show me the hundred
gelatinous eyes staring
up from the shallow limestone shelf
like a spill of black eyed peas
on New Year’s eve,
remind me the promise locked
in each of those boba:
the bulbous bellows of summer.
Bill Brymer thinks there’s nothing better than the sound of frogs in summer.