The Glass Frog
A glass frog sat on a trembling leaf,
clear as a raindrop, bright as the noon.
The river hummed silver beneath him
and the forest breathed green around him.
He peered through his own small belly—
tiny heart tapping like a drum of wonder.
Look, he thought,
the world fits inside me.
Dragonflies stitched gold into the air.
Water slid over stones with laughing mouths.
He watched the clouds drift past
through the soft window of his skin.
How marvelous, he thought,
to be made of light and leaf and water—
to hold nothing hidden,
to carry the forest like a lantern.
But the longer he sat,
the more the river whispered other things.
Fish flickered below him, unseen by themselves.
Beetles clattered by in shining armor.
Birds wore feathers thick as secrets.
Only he was made of glass.
He tried to tuck his heart away
behind a rib or shadow—
but the leaf was thin,
and the sky was wide,
and everything could be seen.
The dragonflies stopped hovering.
The water grew quiet.
He looked once more
through the fragile window of his body—
watched the small red pulse
work tirelessly in the open air.
And for the first time
the forest did not feel like a home,
but a thousand patient eyes.
So the glass frog grew still on his leaf,
no longer marveling at the world inside him—
only wishing, softly,
for something
to hide.
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