Piedmont Frog Song on an Early Spring Night

The invitation still wet with fresh ink wept in your empty upturned palms. Oh Spring, dissolve us. Pull us into your groundwater for a turn at frog level. Glorify our puddles. Make sense of our excavations. Swell translucent sacs in unreluctant muck to birth us in a mess of siblings wriggling. Twitch our larval lengths. Unmeasure our wings. Cough it out, snot it out, pollen line these darkened passages with activating windgold. Wing old heaviness onto wind chime clanging. Replace us cell by cell into center touching center. Drag up the road dead rust fox pelt through the grey in our words out our throat into bark and yip, kick our feet into a frog dance, put us in the place where we chant the puddle song, we chant the muck mantra, where the groundwater bursts from our eyes to sanctify these excavations into the croaking navel of You.

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