It is too hot to be outside

But the frog in the planter doesn’t mind

Heat pours from the sky like water from a rough tide

But over the frog leaves wind

The frog’s green skin,

The color of early spring blooms,

Makes him akin

To the little green bugs over which he looms

The frog has an itch on his face

And raises his webbed hand to scratch

As if making lace

His movements are more delicate than a lit match

A record-breaking June heatwave

Does not faze the little frog

He is kept cool by his leafy cave

And, come Autumn, he will return to his bog