Little frogs are hopping
from the pond to the weeds,
hopping in the headlight beams
across wet asphalt through strings of drizzle,
hopping where my car can only squash them
so I stop.
You take my hand.
“Thank you,” you say.
You like frogs.
There is another route, an extra mile.
I back up, turn around.
“More cars will come,” I say.
Again you take my hand.
“That’s on them,” you say.
We do what we can do.
And maybe, just maybe,
we spared a prince.
This poem first appeared in Your Daily Poem.
—
Joe Cottonwood’s poetry books include Random Saints, Foggy Dog and Son of a Poet. Long ago he wrote an underground novel called Famous Potatoes and recently the memoir 99 Jobs: Blood Sweat and Houses as well as several novels for children. He lives with his high school sweetheart under redwood trees in the Santa Cruz mountains of California. He has worked most of his life in the construction trades repairing and improving houses.
