Pahlow Lane

By Angel Phillips

I ponder the existence of singing frogs
in puddles,
along a country road.

You pull over,
gently begging
silence.
Recognition sweeps doubt
from my face.
I hurry out of the car,
chasing sound.

You watch,
placid,
remembering a moment,
three decades past,
when I looked up at you
able to grasp
just one finger
with my small hand.

I approach the trills
with stealth,
each step
cordially quelling water
from wheat and earth,
desperate for a glimpse
of glistening viridian.
The teasing amphibians
urge approach,
but fail atonement.
Courage rings
upon the heel of
my sandal.

Disappointed,
I return.
Back slumps
into seat,
dissatisfaction parts my lips.
With a mother’s hand
upon my sun rouged shoulder,
you abate frustration.

You remind me that,
next year,
when the farmers
flood the fields again,
I will have my proof of singing frogs
in puddles,
along a country road.

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Categories: Issue 5, Poetry | Leave a comment

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