frogs singing

Out the window is a wet world.
Let’s assume open.
Her face is damp.
Moistness gets everywhere. 

Steam rises over the pond.
He breathes heavy.
Is it wind stirring?
Is it feet? 

Rubbing is cellular.
The sheets are full of tiny holes.
She sighs through all of them.
He can smell her concentration. 

Water is what she thinks of.
How round her bones are!
Waves lap what is deep.
He slopes to her underbelly.

 Night stretches  a m p h i b i a n.
There’s singing in the stones.
Frogs fill their vocal pouches,
thrubbing their love purses.

© Tori Grant Welhouse