The Frog, the Road, the Light

Autumn wanes, so more poetry.

May to September
romance 
is sweetest
when swallowed
in small doses,
an occasional dinner
or maybe red roses,
but don’t bank
on the long haul
or give it your all:
it’s a sprint
to the finish line
and only distraction 
that holds the hand 
of a lonely heart—
by October you’re bleeding
and heaving and forced
to eat sober realizations:
no longer drunk on love—
not a stagger, but a crash
from sugar ingested
in bites too large,
slashed and burned
and left on your couch
with a hangover
and reruns and Hallmark 
commercials to remind 
you that daisies
and four leaf clovers—
well, even baby
bunnies and tadpoles—
won’t remain in sunny
air and fresh breezes
nor enjoy the glory
of perpetual good luck.
Leaves and luck
will turn and fall 
in piles and haphazard
trips, blown and thrown
around by weather
fierce and cold 
when warm blankets
and fires are called
to order and you huddle
there and wallow
in it and wait for pity,
wait for a kind soul 
to remind you anew
that spring will rise, 
and the temperature too,
that the icy winter
is swift and fleeting,
just like love,
and that you might
leap again next May
because why not
take a chance
like a young frog
crossing a road
on a rainy night 
as a car
crests a hill,
when you simply
have no idea
what’s coming
but still bound ahead,
dumb and hopeful
and ready for more
of whatever awaits
over the double
yellow line,
sure that this time
the bright light
will be the sun
and you will not
get squashed.