Frogs

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

They leap as if the air were made
of velvet: two frogs, their backs iridescent
with the hush of rain. Not so much grace
as it is calculation—the way they land
like practiced dancers in the shallows,
their limbs folding into prayer. You’d think
them royalty, their eyes laced with dew,
the kind that turns even pity into
a polished stone.

In the pond's hush, others pause—
some to marvel, some to sneer. The watchers
know better than to trust movement
that makes no ripple. These frogs,
so adept at stillness, host games
that never declare a winner.

They ask for golden minds, rainbow skin—
gifts no frog possesses. But still,
they gather the hopeful in lily-thick circles,
humming promise after promise
until someone forgets they were meant
to leap, not kneel.

And when the queen glides past,
her crown askew with algae,
they lower their voices, sweeten
their throats with flattery: “Your reign
is rain, your voice the dusk’s own prayer.”
They offer not devotion, but mimicry.

Before the old, they bloat into bellow,
inflate with their own importance,
as if their skin could hold a kingdom
of croaks. They dismiss the weary,
those whose limbs ache with memory,
whose bones recall the first rain.

But inside, it’s hunger—sharp as a hooked nail—
that drives them. Their tongues flick lies
like lanterns, each brighter than the last,
blinding the queen with their honey-light.
They dream not of peace,
but of vaults, of coins buried beneath
the cattails, of ponds ruled by silence.

When the monsoon arrives—
the great unmasking—
the mud lifts, the lilies part,
and all pretense melts like sugar
in heat. Their throne collapses—
a reed plucked too soon.

What remains is this:
the quiet frog in the corner,
who did not vie, did not spit,
but leapt gently across
a reed and lit it like a wick.

That frog—the lantern-bearer—
becomes the compass. Not ruler,
but guide. Not power,
but path.