John Popielaski
Elegy for American Toad
Forties last night. August wanes.
Not long before the toads go under.
I have spent the summer treading lightly,
almost tiptoe, on the tall grass,
toad-mined. Failed once.
Viscera. You get the picture.
Closure sometimes is a grave.
I dug one, lined it seriously
with fringe grass, lowered him
by one leg, more grass, soil,
capstone, no inscription.
Sometimes it is not.
Night. Clay pipe like a firefly.
No mating calls. I wonder
if the bad news made the rounds.
A garter snake slides by,
a shadow in the window light.
Coyotes somewhere.
Cold.
Other work by John Popielaski