Summer Of The Frogs Poem by Daniel Y.

I remember boiling summers playing in the cricks and creeks,
when boats upstream and down
stampeded.
where none could penetrate the reeds and brambles of my hidden inlet

after school I'd head into the pond, stillwater.
my mudluscious bog
and I'd catch

the spritely codgers in their soggy hopscotch.

mother in my sunday dress imprisoned me and would braid my hair
rather, I would wear the climbing tree.
hanging oppossum
and finding easter robins
to kiss goodnight.

I feel as if my hands were the same clay
in which they
catch newts and worms and play.
all kinds of mucus peach.

the warts of my affection where
my hands had held a small delicate life
as precious as the orchids which rarely emerge from their cocoon,
must be cleansed with the off-white paste;
like I'm becoming a double breather myself
like a softball caked in mud.

one day, a smile creased along his chinless stump
my prince!
webbed tree hugging toes,
twig legs,
spring!
he blares a baritone ballad to his sweetness.

a factory moved into town that year,
which was a good thing,
‘cause daddy got a better job.

until the river ran red
like a crimson crayon

came in like a quick shadow,
the bipolar things jumping out of the water.

they looked silly with the hiccups until
I realized they were on their last breaths.

then the dead ones lounged
and I mourned the ugly field of war—