When they gave us the frog to dissect
a wave of sadness enveloped me.
I ran my fingers along its body
slowly and gently,
over and over,
wanting to raise it from the dead,
longing for it to live.
I did not care what I could learn
from its lifeless anatomy.
This melancholy nature has persisted
even as I approach old age.
I am now, at every sunset,
the grief-stricken pallbearer
of each precious day.
And in the wee hours of mornings
like this, I find myself
inviting ghosts in for coffee.
One of them, it turns out, is the frog,
who has remembered gratefully
my long ago regard, and likes to
talk about better days.
Is any tear ever wasted?
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A strange coincidence that you should post this one about a lifeless frog, since on the desk beside me lies a slow-worm's detached tail! (Do you have slow worms in the US? Legless lizards that look like snakes and shed their tail when threatened.)
I found it in the road as I walked home today, and simply had to pick it up and stroke it. And now I don't know what to do with it, since I can't bear just to throw it in the bin. I keep looking at it, imagining it is still moving - which clearly it isn't!
No, I am sure no tear is ever wasted.
Sal
Rx