The Occasional Frog (or sitting in the barn thinking of you)

Being a few years beyond perching, I sat.

Sat in the barn and listened.

Listened to the horses eat, the frogs chatter,

and the clock tick between them both.

I sat, not caring to perch with much grace,

studied the dog standing guard, and thought.

Thought of each of you, far too many of you,

leaving, leaving far too soon.

Being a touch too tired to perch, I sat.

Muddy boots, fingernails a disgrace, I sat.

Sat in the barn and remembered.

Remembered the first time I felt like the driftwood

that colored my poetry back when I believed

them both to be romantic, and I sat.

Sat in the barn, and listened.

Listened to the clock bounce between

horses, dogs, the occasional frog, and thought.

Thought of a young woman

not too far from the one that chose driftwood

back when the grief was too thick to see, and wondered.

Wondered if she’d make it through without turning to wood.

And hoped that tonight, if nothing else,

she had that occasional frog chattering.

Chattering between clocks ticking, horses eating,

and dogs standing guard.