There Is a Poem I Cannot Write

I feel myself becoming a bullfrog again
Or the namesake of one whose friends raid the wine cellars
Croaking madly disregarded in one of the many places where
Eagles fly
This one seated by a flinty river in a whitewashed limestone land

Clearly what I mean…
Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

The fait accompli is in place
The thing already done
And I know what is coming
Have seen the sadness that will follow
But I cannot say too much about it

Frogs are easily trodden underfoot
Though they know more of the crowding flies than most
And it is of small things whizzing through the air my croaking warns
And others’ croaking

I hope that I am wrong
I know that I am not
And there is no blessing to follow after this hope
The coming croaking gives the lie to Pope

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