It was a close call.
I stepped from the hot tub
and reached for my robe,
your cold, damp foot grazing mine.
Then you—hopping back
to the flowerbed
where you often enjoy bathing
in the bubbler fountain cistern.
Me, grateful your life
was spared, not wanting
to experience your softness
crushed beneath
the full weight of my step.
A few days later, my husband walks
into the kitchen—smelling of cut grass
and summer perspiration.
I have a confession
he says, as if to a priest.
You know the frog in the flowerbed,
I nod. He hopped in front of the mower.
I saw him too late. If only
we could have gathered your remains,
cremated you in the firepit,
spread your delicate ashes
beneath the aspen, with a sprinkle
into the bubbler, then this confession
could have become
an act of perfect contrition.
–
Trish Hopkinson is a poet and advocate for the literary arts. You can find her online at SelfishPoet.com and in western Colorado where she runs the regional poetry group Rock Canyon Poets. Hopkinson happily answers to atheist, feminist, and empty nester, and she enjoys traveling, live music, wine-tasting, and craft beer.