This frog is more gifted
than mere appearance would indicate.
Like a finely-tuned bard, like the prince’s courtesan,
you tongue is the right hand of desire.
And speaking of hands, they are all but useless.
Do not attempt to grasp what you cannot have,
Allow your powerful legs and batwing feet
to launch you across the dragging current.
And, for God’s sake and your own, leap!
From dry land to outcropped boulder,
at spring torrent or seven-year drought,
the gift of air and motion can be yours.
From birth, you are one thing,
then you become yourself forever.
Fishtail recedes as backbone curves and ossifies.
Your hide turns green and stubborn.
Those bulbous eyes can split the water,
rake the shore, while you, the beast, remain
camouflaged in tall grass, baking off pond muck,
blissed-out on a rock in the April sun.
Mud is second skin, water and earth your twin allies,
so when night carves its initial on the river’s path,
still those leaping feet, that shipping tongue.
Lift up your gullet for passing low notes and wail.