Tadpoles in the Frog Pond

by

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

the day,

 

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,

like me.

 

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.