The Frog and His Fiddle
Cross-legged he sits upon the ground
Playing a fiddle that makes no sound.
With a broken bow in his frozen grip
No note from his hand will ever slip.
He sits amidst the flowers in bloom-
The air redolent with their sweet perfume,
But he’s immobile indeed throughout the day
And so never sends forth a musical lay.
Yet I swear I heard as I was falling asleep
At the end of a day I had no wish to keep,
When my mind was weary and my thoughts were dim,
I’m sure I heard music coming from him.
He fiddled in notes that were joyful and witty;
Soon I was caught up in his musical ditty.
As the crickets kept time with his light airy tune
The flowers all danced beneath the full moon.
And I, for my part, as I lay in my bed
With his music swirling in my dream covered head,
I danced with the flowers each in their turn
Humming a song I never did learn.
Then after a while he changed what he played
As he eased into a soft serenade,
And the crickets, and flowers, and I myself too,
Found rest in the notes his music spoke through.
And so I dreamt throughout the night
Then greeted the dawn with strange delight,
And the troubles that had gone to bed with me
Now no longer have the same urgency.
If you called me strange I would have to approve,
For I certainly agree that a statue can’t move,
But I noticed this morning down the garden lane
As the sun slowly crept toward my window pane
That the frog and his fiddle, though in the same place,
Has a wry little a smile upon his face,
And with his fiddle resting on his knee-
I do believe he winked at me!
Copyright © Bruce Schuhart | Year Posted 2012
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