In a hollow at the very end of my long backyard
Lies the frog pond.
Ensconced by a trio of weeping willow trees.
Only the early hummingbirds
Find their way to the hanging fuchsias
As well as a spatter of bumblebees.
Standing guard over one side of the bank,
Dejectedly overgrown with moss
Glowing wet and green,
A mostly silent maneke-pis.
Nobody ever goes down to the frog pond,
Only I, when I wish to be alone.
There’s my flat rock that lies
At the foot of the leaning willow,
Where I sit to spin dreams
or just watch clouds in the sky
Float on the surface of the pond’s waters.
Tis’ a retreat of sorts from the world weary run
Its mysterious rippling gleaming silverlight.
Then, once on a blue clear summer day,
A glimmering thought darts quickly by.
Provoking, intriguing, setting my thoughts all a-twitter,
Despite its flashing speed just grazing my eye.
To hang on to it, as it slips past my mind’s grasp
Only to leave me bereft but for that quick flushed feeling
Of fleeting ancient lore, long past forgotten, passing me by.
I try vainly to capture it in scrabbled scribbling.
Spellbound princes and flitting muses lurk there.
They whisper not-nothings in my ear,
As I hasten to put pen down to paper,
Before the not-nothings in my ear disappear.
The frogs sing in the evenings of summer.
Sometimes their deep baritones
Drowning cricket song.
Like a chanting of old secrets they rumble
Old knowledge passed on in their tongue.
What do they know of worldly endeavors?
In their ancient wisdom of the cycle of life?
From the young to the old to the young again,
Of living and mating and fading and dying,
Cloaked In their summer frogs’ song.
The Frog pond beckons coolly to me, for
Who else would look into its quiet secret circle,
Peer into its watery root, rock, and leafy depths
Because spellbound princes and muses lurk there?
Because spellbound princes and muses lurk there.