Mack Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Frogs of
August
After
surprising summer showers in
A
time of heat and dust and lethargy,
Forth
from their hidden reptilian repose
The
frogs of August rise, and sing a hymn,
A
joyful hymn to rain and tasty bugs.
The
Pickwickian toad sings of himself,
A
stout old gentleman of means and thrift;
The
bluff and hearty bullfrog by the pond
Bellows
his boasts, and puffs his own praises.
Preferring
window screens to rain-damp leaves,
The
tiny tree frog trills his outsized voice.
The
disparate, dissonant descantations
Of
this catalogue of errant froggery
Drift
in and out of transient harmony
And
back again, an ancient unity
To
please the late-night wanderer of hours.
O Ye of Little
Frog
For those who
deny that frogs sing to God
O
ye of little faith in night’s mysteries
Oft
hasten to explain away God’s arts,
And
dampen joys with your false-writ histories
Believing
in dull books, and not your hearts.
You
claim that frogs sing only to gain mates,
Based
on some long-dead dullard’s science log,
Claiming
the last word on reptilian traits -
What
do you know of the love-life of a
frog?
You
might then with equal injustice claim
That
Compline is sung in order to attract
Women
– but is that Saint Benedict’s aim?
Poor
frogs and monks sing hymns; and that’s a fact!
