the frogs

by Allister Nelson

Gold were my days, when the long summer of my life

played out like reeds cut to form Pan’s pipe, a wild

child spread out across the meadows in quilted skirts.

They say you grow old and lost without love, but I

had only the frog as companion, bulling at night

as the marsh moon silhouetted the crane, true flight.

I with my golden ball, playing catch and fetch in the

swamps, nets of duckweed in my hair, only the gold

sunk deep as dead men, and frogs, they tell no tales.

But frog swam, lowing like a cow with his great bubble.

Chest swollen from courting me, I bent down to pick up

the bauble that had trapped me in froggy embrace, a kiss.

And frog became man, and gold were my days, gold my man.

They say only the frogs know where gold balls go down below.

But rivers flow, and the marsh tells no tales, and swamps are serene.

And so I and frog set up a witch’s hut on banks of meadow flowing.

Downy dew of crane feathers flowing into the muck, and he still

ate flies.

But for his love, for his companionship, for my froggy lover?

did not care one'

whit.

Click here to read Allister’s bio.