Frog Crossing

It’s Monday morning and I’m weaving

to avoid the frogs who are jumping across 

the road, spurred from their overwinter burrows 

by these warm rains—a sure sign of spring, 

and the melting of a blue-grey winter.

 

 

 

Leaving

You are the autumn

We went our separate ways

Oak leaves in our wake

 

 

They say dogs sometimes take after their owners.

I sit in the front of my car, basking in sunlight.

My dog eats a dandelion—flowers, stems and leaves.

Later, she sleeps on the sun-drenched windowsill.

I eat a beetroot salad with wild garlic dressing for dinner.

We are creatures of warmth and roughage.