Dime size frogs construct
pyramids at my doorstep, hundreds
clamoring to be the triumphant piece,
the eye to the heavens.
This breathing swarm comes
to me in the shallow hours of the morning
after night rains soak the bog,
and drive them to dry.
They make me vigilant
about my giant steps, wary
of crushing their tiny bodies
into blotted stains, red and brown,
toothpick bones splayed out
in post-mortem viewing.
My daughter will hear the dirge
from the water, and crouch down
close to the earth,
inspecting death is her proclivity,
wrapping her mind around its permanence, her art.
The hollow of my heart
wants to alleviate the guilt
of creating a sadness
that will strike its mark
upon her face somewhere
between home and grandfather’s house,
producing tears of crocodile proportions,
viable stains I cannot undo.
Aleathia Drehmer 2007
Published by Full of Crow 2/09
2 comments:
this is so melancholy but uplifting at the same time. i really like the fact that children demonstrate proclivity..its so adult! this is a wonderous piece.
Thank you Michael. After this event happened, I waited for it to happen again the next year and the year after that, but it never did. It was truly a plague of frogs that year. My daughter is full of different proclivities. She astounds me daily. Thanks for stopping by. I don't often get visitors.
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