Frogs hop in, and the rain falls
where my daughter sleeps in rooms
full of jungle, beneath a mosquito net
and the sound of roosters.
In the north I tap the pond’s ice
with my foot, breaking it into plates
so thin I know this is spring,
its weak start
and somewhere down in the muck
the frogs have wintered. Raking, I pull
leaves back from the cold toads,
then bury them again,
both of us surprised: me by such round
white bellies, suddenly, them
by the air and bright light of April.
Soon enough all the amphibians
will sing summer bright and warm,
sing rains down. And soon enough the girl
will come home. Not soon enough.
But eventually.
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