Clinging to the swinging storm door,
the tiny frog extends two sticky toes
upward and stares outward
beyond death and sanctification
like a yearning Christ,
that three-chambered heart beating
against his harped collarbone
with a rhythm as fragile
and explosive as—
There is no peace
for the blessed, I guess;
even while still
life’s wild hymn curries my mind
with the sight of everything—
the pale bodhran of its abdomen
keeping time with
the ten thousand damselflies
striking the tympanum
of the silvering pond
and the fallow field beyond
where two bucks stand grazing—
their muscles
shimmering like splash cymbals
beneath their skin.