I drowse and dream at waterline. Those royal frogs of the tropics
scan two realms at once – above and below – but I have simple eyes
and inhabit one world at a time. Up there, mottled cottonwood,
its first gold about to tumble. Below, black muck, where I’ll
settle with the frost to a yearning sleep. I have learned to wait.

But let me tell you how close the breath of happiness eddied
one evening when the June sun sank. The heat was thick,
of course, fat dragonflies crinkling past, the still air in gulps
and that old longing to leap from the pool straight into heaven –
the arms of the One who will not flinch. This was not the year.

Though it almost was: I was summer for her, the walker who came
needing something – the marker, perhaps of a season so full
it might have been love if the right one had appeared. As it was,
my grating song must have led her outdoors, up the dirt path
between rocks to this bank. She stopped – as I did – and looked down.

I no longer blame her. Even in that forgiving amber light
who would bend close to dark water, and a stranger. Not a touch.
So a grunt, my best leap, a splash far out, and she turned – startled
but pleased, I think – toward the house, holding herself shyly,
as if seen by someone who knew her well. What should I have done?