The Frog

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.