The Plop of a Frog-Colored-Grief

Everything is creased & kept In right place & order To avoid even a particle of dust. But all worms Are not devised to Die before a naphthalene. The dead narcissus, The spittle of wind on windowpane, The half-empty dish of rice Beside the folded mattress Make me return & recall The days of nursery school, The lesson of my favorite farmer. His corns would come & store themselves magically ! Flying out of ancient hearth Gods & dogs Gift me The vessel of ashes.