Karen Corinne Herceg © 2015 • Privacy Policy




An early April day, arms full of grocery bags,

frost in the air not yet done,

I walked toward the house, stopped,

stunned by the sudden sight,

their gleaming bodies

laid out across rocks rimming the fountain

like civil war soldiers

waiting to be recognized and buried.

The porch where I sat evenings

watching the small waterfall

leech through rocks

frothing into a pool rimmed with tiger lilies

was far from soothing now.

How to know the autumn before

ice would seal a wet tomb

before those innocents could escape?

A city girl, I couldn’t warn them

or know of nature’s ways.


Bags fallen at my feet, I spotted him

through our picture window

sitting casually New York Times in hand.

How he loved the crossword puzzle,

its setup of boxes, the clean neat lines,

the completion of tiny words,

the supposition of victory.

This was complete, too:  

death at the end of long years,

memories frozen over with no future

laid out to view.

He thought those frogs were a warning

but they were only seeking a proper burial,

an affirmation

of what was long deceased.



First published in THE WRITING DISORDER Summer 2015

A Wake of Frogs