The eclipse of a sinking heart
shackles the mourning sky.
Sifted through tired trees
draped in red moonlight.

The echo of the bullfrog's croak
heaves its barreled chest.
Not for air's might
but for sorrow's last gasp.

It's grip weights heavy
webbed fingers twist and pull.
Hanging on the Lilly
the currents eternal drone.

Alone in the twilight
where darkness drinks the glow.
The pond's surface swallows
whatever descends the soul.

The trumpet flower silenced
by the wail of the bullfrog

tangled

in

the

moor