Mama Frog

He thought himself a frog, so a frog he was.

Awkward, pond-bound, covered with warts.

Trapped in a heart that could not swim to shore.

Caught in a croak that could not call for help.

Frightened of the night, he sat on a lily pad and waited.

Pond-water teardrops welled out of his eyes

And splashed into his lap.

He didn’t want to be a frog again.

“No one can love a frog,” he said.

“I’d rather have died,” he cried.

How do I tell my good-looking son he’s not ugly

When he thinks he is?  Do I whisper? Do I shout?

How do I tell my little-boy son I love him

When he’s a man and doesn’t think I can?

Speak gently of yesterdays when as a little boy

He caught up a frog and held it in his hands

Not hurting it all.

Remember the little boy who scurried to my side

With cupped hands we looked inside.

Speak carefully of little-boy tears

When the frog escaped and hopped back to the lake.

How much has he heard?  I can only guess.

What memory is in his clouded mind

Behind his pain-filled eyes?

Wait!  He begins to hear I understand.

Cautiously he begins to know I care.

Touch his cheek gently.

Speak softly of frog feelings and frog conversations.

“Conversation is always possible though sometimes hard

Between any two people and any two frogs.”                RIBBIT! RIBBIT! RIBBIT!

 Suddenly he knows—He is here—he hears—                         

Anytime he turns into a frog

I can be there too, MAMA FROG.