There was a bullfrog

And sometimes I would see him amongst
the lily pads
He, with no knowledge of the stories,
Nose just above water, pulling
bow across bass strings.

This morning, a croak suddenly burbles and

I know before looking.

---Yes, just there, a scaled tail
slinks into the pond, its
small wake nudging empty thrones.

Just yesterday I gave that frog a name.

4/29/2024

for olivia

The golden kings of early spring
stand bejeweled in early morning,
turning dewy, emerald-cloaked
faces to an unwavering azure.

A surprise of a yellow bouncing ball
trundles down the hill, her owner
heedless, crying over some perceived slight
(her mother insisting on a jacket, perhaps).

And --- there! a splash of black-and-red
swoops down to investigate,
his mate urging caution from bent stalks
of overwintered goldenrod

(his neighbor in blue watches
from an obsequious young walnut,
biting his tongue).

A flicker streaks by, flashing
her mossy yellow underthings,
scandalous and fleeting.

And here the clacking geese have returned,
shuffling bills busy at the watercress.

I wish to return to a time when
a simple scene could bring such joy.

12/01/2023

That old queer
Willow
leans bent-backed
over the silvered mirror
pooling at gentle slacks
(or skirts);

their delicate fingers trace rings
that limn an ancient face.

Better Narcissus
​with yellow 
hair dripping, ageless, down
than Salix, whose sallow locks
frame an ungendered crown;

or Cypress, old knees raised up high
and timeworn; polished; sage.