by Penn Kemp
We two skalds sit together side by
each, looking out over centuries.
We watch the stirred pot settle till
murky situations sweetly clarify of
their own accord, attuned to an old
rhythm whose resonance is our song.
We watch the seasons’ rush, leaves
deciding on whether it’s spring or
fall. The creek is slowly turning into
pond, so water plants blithely tell.
And the frogs declare they’re home.
They’re not going anywhere else
now that our water levels equal
spirit level. Toads will return in
time to lay a million unimpeded
eggs, a myriad tadpoles and more
toads a fingernail long to bide a
while as lares in their garden lair
awaiting the Goddess.