Poetry

Wood Frog Mother by Sara Wright

Dead CedarWeek after weekheat, wind, sun,shrinks vernal pools. Ditches are dry.Denizensof wet forest,masked gold leaves,seek shallow depressions fed by Spring. One night theheat wave breaksI smell rain,hear hoarse croaks.I stand thereswallowing soundinhaling fragrant airLamenting absence –so many voices stolenby drought.