Dear Pollywog

Megan McLaughlin

The world did not seem afraid, 

though 

the small ducklings that swept her waters

are grown,

though the graceful, behemoth cranes 

have long traded airy tides

for stiller, nesting loam. 

Ends I’ve seen

–ice frosted snow

and slate sky,

warm summer’s eye 

so far

below

one might think it

alone. 

She knows better. 

Penny hue pollywogs

save murky depths from

stillness complete,

little feet kicking wildly

through late stores of rain. 

How could the pollywogs know 

what the scarlet maple means?

To them

flaming leaves

and their green neighbors 

must be a beginning. 

Their marble eyes peak

through nearly chilled air that gills can 

never reach,

and they do not seem afraid.

Not as the dusky sky of preautumn 

glances over her shoulder.

Maybe 

she sees where the ducklings

have flown,

or the behemoth cranes.

Maybe 

she feels winter edging close.

But,

for the pollywogs,

she smiles and whispers

an ending can still be a home.