You are the prince of pond dwellers.
I’m a clumsy wanderer, disbelieving that
your leap onto my patio has anything to do with me.
Your skin is mottled green, slick with dew.
Your limbs are taut and spring-loaded.
Your croak is sharp, your stare ancient.
I have no idea what this body of mine
would sound like in your ears.
Our destinies diverge. But emerging from the reeds,
you are so regal. Stumbling out with the rising sun,
I am a peasant through and through.
It’s wicked, really – that I must scoop you from the grass,
wrap you in netting, watch you twitch in my palm.
You’re bound for the terrarium,
to join your amphibian brethren.
Sometimes our purpose is at odds with our posture.
For example, the worms get my body in the end.
But you wouldn’t know that from looking at me.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, Writer’s Block and Trampoline. To me, the frog is the true canary in the coal mine. When they leave, I’m outta here.