I imagine, I imagine, in the magic of a dream
A small frog takes a journey and travels out to sea.
In his tiny wooden boat, carved from a tree.
He is a broken-hearted son of the wisdom tree.
Born in the hollows, in a richly seeded darkness.
Moving forward from the distance into places unknown.
And he feels himself a fallen angel. His tears like the rain, he weeps.
He lost the sense of the value of what he has.
He thought he a had only the choice of playing a part in
what others did, but then he has his own songs, and he has his own dancing.
Because things change and events don’t go as planned,
his heart was filled with regret.
Since the whole of the story remains hidden from view, he took
the pieces as failed attempts. He lost his faith and
had to regain it. Yet,
delighting in the hidden threshold, his
unfitting ness kept him free. Take
heed of a yielding, pulsing, animal body: the inner figures
of the waking dream. Is it not we
who won’t attend the work of the subtle inner voices, which
thrive in secret. Held fast to the fires of the mother womb.
He learns to attune to his native rhythm.
Rest peaceful within the dark abyss, the steep
and narrow, in the out of the way places. He finds his way home.
Of night and sea, mountain and moon, a
yellow, green, slithery, frog-like nature. Touching
his heart, whose wild beauty. . . throbbing
gently bathes in sweet waters. He
blossoms like the sea.