Sonnet 37 Polliwogs Poem by Barry Middleton

Love grows as love goes
like polliwogs to frogs,
whose wiggliness no longer shows
in leaping out from logs.

Love's occult when love's adult,
and somber in her days,
and makes no effort to rebut
her oriental ways.

Love's at rest when love is best,
when passion's bit is done,
then love settles on her nest,
and contemplates the sun.

Love's a gaudy lily in the first days of May,
a wildflower memory on a cold December day.