the fowler’s toadlet

or baby frog as I called it, rests

in the cup formed by my hands.

it didn't seem traumatized

during the hunt nor by its gentle capture.

it jumped around in the thick overgrowth
of the garden meadow beforehand, but
not in fear. it seemed to like jumping around
barely disturbing the blades as it did. 

cupped like this it seemed to find comfort

in the moisture of my skin, the salt of my boyhood

cut with rainwater, the sweet lingering scent of vine

grapes coating the fingertips violet.

It's silent like me and beating like me,

enjoying the warmth of my company.

the backyard
circa 1951