The frog
that's in my garden
is incredibly far from home.
This cannot be its home
since by its very
amphibious nature
it lives and moves
part-time
in water.
Yes, there are puddles filling
holes along the dirt, in
inconsistencies of deck
and stepping
stone –
the coloured blocks that
sag in certain places,
in a way I cannot notice
unless it rains.
There's a river to the east
about a mile,
30 light-years for a frog,
with its inefficient hop,
each sluggish, awkward jump
preceding scheduled breaks
to rest,
while predators await,
and scores of running wheels
ever-ready
to squash it flat.
It pours in summer daybreak
while I sleep,
while I dream of downward
spirals,
of plunging from the sky
and flapping arms
in lieu of wings,
a frog beneath
the beanstalk
sponging water's
soothing drops,
its bumpy head
and back
now beaded wet,
leaving nothing lost
or wasted in the fall.
