Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Sonnet #29

Last night I heard the toads again, their song
Like tiny bells of darkness, little birds
That lost their wings but did no wrong
They clamber out to sing one true word

All feathers lost, all flight abandoned
Such tiny souls, such hopeful ones
Creep where no one sees the saddened
The moonlight's blind reflecting sun

The damp, the mud, the hop that falters
Never flying higher than safe landings
All my little ones, live here, take shelter
Where the water's deep enough for standing

The tininess of beauty, crawling from the muck
The little, lonely tadpoles dreaming luck

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