by Patricia Clark
Overhead, auburn light was gilded, then flat.
And the light called out to me, so I stepped outside.
Called out was a verb I could barely explain,
a subliminal tidal force into ankle deep leaves.
Sister, will I go through another season without you?
Years ago a girl fell on a cement step
gripping a glass jar swimming with tadpoles.
They became frogs in the nearby pond,
later stunted with ulcers, extra genitals and limbs.
I hear a fatal ticking and call, again, your name.
*Photo courtesy thanker212.
