A bullfrog rasps his guttural voice,
and it echoes deep into the forest
like a moonlight sonata,
his monotonic baritone sounds the summer eve,
as the full moon peers into the woodlands,
its wide-eyed girth ever watching.
In a clearing not far from the creek,
a fire blazes, stoked for high impact,
as nymphs dance elegantly around it,
celebrating the harvest moon,
a season of plenty
and the joy and freedom of nakedness.
Shadows dance along,
like long spider legs, circling the flames,
and the bullfrog alone at distance,
claims the forest resound,
all creatures quiet amid the firelight,
and as the nymphs begin to sing,
the frog relents and dives into the nearby creek.
Their siren-like voices, as sweet as rain,
flow like waves of joyous refrain,
and in that cut out clearing, where firelight circles neatly,
that melody swirls high into the tree tops,
as if to invite the moon to play,
and celebrate their praise.
They wear blooms and wheat stalks
in their hair, and carry baskets brimming with fare,
and as their hair so long and lustrous,
sways to the rhythm of the dance,
they become lost in trance,
lost to this moment of vivid life.
And creatures large and small
watch at a distance, quietly, so still,
somehow in awe of this ritual,
knowing in some way its pure intention,
and mesmerised by the flickering flames
so warm and inviting.
In stoic manner they dance til dawn,
as the night so artfully slips away,
and as the raging fire returns to sombre embers,
not a soul remains in the new day,
as sunlight now flickers through the trees,
morning breeze and dancing leaves,
as blue trails rise, remnants of the night.
Tony DeLorger © 2018