PONDS

Of waters still
and lily pads to rest,
what world the frog did know,
not asking much, but a few flies
for his meals and to croak as he pleased.

His language plain
a home unadorned of luxury,
yet when it came to visitors
he never turned them down.

So where others feared to tread
because of rumors about warts,
I found fellowship under the sky,
because at his pond
my words didn’t matter,
neither if I knew how to leap,
didn’t require a reason to explain
anything I did.

Just sat back and watched the clouds,
with my new friend,
ribbits I understood
without an interpreter,
saying what I felt,
nature shares a song
anyone can love,
as long as care more for its sound
than what someone else thinks.