Pocket pet of witches,
reincarnated child souls,
most toxic augers of weather
and superstitions.
Your midnight croaking
foretells the coming rain,
a draught of pollywogs
is a cure-all for ailments.
You taste somewhere
between mermaid and chicken,
with no power to grant wishes
or bestow warts upon the wicked.
In the original fairy tale,
it\'s the maiden who transforms you,
pummeling you against the wall
to turn you back into a prince.
Mistake Bufo for you,
and open the doors of astral vision,
sweeping you into the clouds
and hailing you down upon roofs and roads.
You are the earth gauger,
measuring poison in the waters,
and the first to die out
when your habitat is contaminated.
We see our end times
as nuclear cataclysm, flood, and drought,
as pandemics sweep the globe,
and you peel off your dead skin and eat it,
like some megaton explosion,
shedding self and primogenial desires.
What did I know
peeling you apart,
teasing out your three-chambered heart,
but denials sweet and tribulations vile?
And if you had wings,
you wouldn\'t bump your salientian ass
every time you hopped down the street.
You are a creature of mystery and wonder,
a symbol of both destruction and renewal,
a reminder of the delicate balance
that exists within our world. (\"The Frog\") by Courtney Weaver Jr.