Soon you will rise from the mud, leaving
the dark pockets, to float in the warmest part
of the pond, calling to the females clustered
by the shore. Your ivory underbelly will be
hidden, only those dark patches glistening,
as you wait to attach yourself with hooked
thumbs, eager to mate. I want to know
how you count the days in the cold mud,
if those swirling clouds of eggs haunt you,
or if you remember the moist skin of the female
breathing beneath you. I want to read
the layers of winter in your thick back legs,
the voice of spring in the common markings
of your ridged and shimmering back.
I watch the ice melting from my window,
planning the days when I may step smoothly
through snow, leave footprints,
like thick lessons, in the mud.
the dark pockets, to float in the warmest part
of the pond, calling to the females clustered
by the shore. Your ivory underbelly will be
hidden, only those dark patches glistening,
as you wait to attach yourself with hooked
thumbs, eager to mate. I want to know
how you count the days in the cold mud,
if those swirling clouds of eggs haunt you,
or if you remember the moist skin of the female
breathing beneath you. I want to read
the layers of winter in your thick back legs,
the voice of spring in the common markings
of your ridged and shimmering back.
I watch the ice melting from my window,
planning the days when I may step smoothly
through snow, leave footprints,
like thick lessons, in the mud.
