Tadpoles in the Frog Pond
Radiance Angelina Petro
The thunderstorm has rolled up
its heavy canvas bags,
and is off to the next town,
bees go back to composing
the narrative of the day
in satins and velvets,
the sun slips back into the sky
on a shining blue gondola,
and throws light into the trees.
Sometimes it feels like the night
nearly succeeds in preventing
sometimes the day seems academic
and uninspired, and one daffodil
is all daffodils,
and sometimes what you want
is misnamed profane, and what you don’t
is misnamed sacred.
Whatever the case may be,
or how baffling the bonds you make
in the night are, shadows
have their own nuanced glow,
and nothing is unforgettable,
and there are still tadpoles in the frog pond.
Abide within yourself.
It’s easy to become too spiritual,
The day expands and contracts
with or without you. May as well
loosen your voice
and circulate vowels and consonants
through your breath, and sing forward
into your life.
One day you will roll up
your empty canvas bags,
and be off to the next town.