"dazzle gradually"

"Dazzle Gradually" 2017 poems, paintings, new art & photography--a diary, a discipline, a delight. Read over my shoulder as I post my unedited poetry ---you can see it in the raw or get my first book and see how the work evolves with new books rolling out next year.

Polly Alice

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

The Toad

The toad was just there one day
in the front flower bed
after the rain.

Is it real?

I touched it.
It didn't move, or blink.
It felt dryer than I thought it should,
but it was real.
I picked it up and stoked it's head.

You can stay here, Mr. Toad.
We have a nice flower bed,
and we won't bother you.

The Toad didn't answer.
We put him back on the ground
and soon he'd disappeared.

The Toad came back
after the next Spring rain.

Hello Mr. Toad.

We smiled at him, honored
 to have our very our garden toad.
Who needs a statue?

We might have seen him once
or twice again.

Then came the fire.
The whole front of the house
was doused in high pressure water
broken glass everywhere.

Rediculous, really,
that I wondered if Mr. Toad
was the only casualty of the fire.
Had he drowned, or overheated
under the front steps of
the little yellow house?

Summer passed and the house
was gutted and rebuilt.
The flower beds were redone.
The bushes pulled out by the roots,
the beds filled with new white rock.

We never thought of Mr. Toad
that Christmas when we moved back in,
or through the longest winter in a hundred years.

Then came the Spring rains.
One morning we found a huge
hole in the flower bed.
Someone had burrowed their
way out from under the new rocks,
the gray groundcover cloth,
and old leaves from under the
front porch of the little yellow house.

Someone with very strong legs for digging.
We don't know who it was.

1 comment:

  1. Toads can survive anything. Look at Mr. Toad in the Wind in the Willows. He survives car crashes, prison, and cross-dressing. I love that this poem takes me places. I join the cheerful scene, tumble down with you over the events of the past year, and celebrate that you choose to end with hope. Poetry that ends with hope is what keeps me reading, and you excel at that.


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